


Carte Blanche

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Play, Companion Piece, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Language Kink, Mirror Sex, Multi, NSFW Art, Oral Sex, Original Black Female Character - Freeform, Religious Uncertainty, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 46,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5906635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to both <i>Post Tenebras Lux</i> and <i>Maledictus</i>. A compendium of moments before, during, and after both fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Rest

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of drabbles and ficlets over the course of Samson and Hadiza's life during and after the Inquisition. It takes place during various parts of their life, and so none of the stories are truly interconnected insofar as continuity. But some are between the final chapter of [_Maledictus_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3798841/chapters/8459896) and its epilogue.
> 
> Honestly, this is just me trying to practice writing in a different style and tense than I'm used to, and to keep my writing evolving while I adjust to being busy again.

The healers won’t touch him, she learns. They treat his worst injuries, yes, but for the most part they ignore him, heedless of his comfort. It is as if they are waiting for him to die, that one of his wounds takes septic and he perishes in the night. Then, they will bury him in an unmarked grave as they feel he deserves no honor the pyre brings.

When Hadiza finds him shivering with fever, she is furious. She knows shoddy healing work when she sees it. Sutures too loose and ragged to be much use, and grit still in the knife wound along his arm. Hadiza’s nostrils flare, and she works against her fury to not drop the temperature in the tent. The lead healer, a dour older woman named Katrina, comes in, stopping short when she stares at the back of the Inquisitor before dropping into a low kneel.

Hadiza does not glance over her shoulder, but her fury is palpable.

“Y-your Worship!” Katrina stammers out, fearful, her voice bleeding from the wound of shame before her. “I did not know you’d be coming.”

Hadiza stares at Samson, who looks at her, his eyes bright and bloodshot with fever, but beneath the glare is a plea for her to end his suffering.

“How long has he been like this?” Hadiza demands as she moves with a ruthless efficiency. His bandages are stained russet and black with old blood. She works carefully to remove them.

“Sorry.” She whispers when he seizes with pain. One of his wounds is leaking pus, but she smells no sign of mortification, and thanks the Maker for small mercies. Katrina watches, stunned to silence.

“We have been busy tending to those coming out of the Arbor Wilds, as you well know, Inquisitor.” Katrina says, her tone carrying more bite. Hadiza’s hands are deft as she pours an ewer of water into a bowl, and trails her fingertips along its curved edge, whispering a word. The water steams with arcane heat, and she begins the process of cleaning the exposed wounds carefully.

“Sorry.” She whispers again, and begins to scratch out the grit in the gash. Samson cries out, the usual note of his voice unstrung with anguish, a chord out of tune as pain becomes the only music he knows. He has endured the red madness of corrupted lyrium, has quaffed more of the stuff than is healthy, but this? This is worse somehow, for the memory of the fiery pain of red lyrium is distant, and this…this is happening  _now_.

It feels like an eternity before she stops, and her nail replaced by the wet, cleansing warmth of a clean cloth. She washes away the pus, the blood, the grit and grime, revealing red and angry flesh. She inspects again, and takes out her medical kit. Katrina watches, moving only when Hadiza gives a curt order to bring her this or that, and to begin work on a poultice to treat the wounds that no rot set in. Katrina moves with alacrity, and Hadiza’s silver eyes cut her apart as their gazes meet.

Samson lays in his cot, racked with pain and fever, but his focus, scattered like snow in the wind, hones in on the methodical deftness of her hands. Hadiza speaks to him kindly, her voice soft, her expression softer. He will recall none of this, save that she dulled the edge of his agony with her touch. She uncorks a bottle, her face grim.

“This won’t be easy.” She tells him, and his eyes, wild and watery, dart to focus on her. “I need you to drink this. It tastes…horrid. But it will beat back your fever.”

Samson doesn’t care. Anything to stop the pain. He complies, and she cradles his head like a precious thing, bringing the bottle to his lips. They are dry and cracked, and his mouth is a desert.

The Inquisitor is right, whatever tonic she has concocted taste foul, like drinking water from the gutter, and he sputters as his thirst is quenched, bringing his tastebuds to life that he might sample the horrible flavor. Maker it is awful but he feels its effects almost immediately. His fever no longer feels like a wildfire, consuming all in its path, and more like a distant flame. His body aches from abuses past and present, from wounds old and new, but she is there, hovering above him like some night-spun figment, her dark hair haloed by the mage-fire she uses to light the way.

His lips move, soundless, his voice is little more than dust in his throat, and he coughs in place of words. Hadiza’s fingertips are cool and merciful, and her eyes are soft and tender with a terrible compassion that frightens him.

“Be still,” she says, “and do not speak. Just rest.”

Samson does not realize how long he has waited to hear such a thing until that moment. Just rest. Maker…when is the last time he just _rested_? When did he allow himself such a luxury as that? His eyes shut, and he sinks into himself, seeking that place of stillness that he has not had for so long. He wonders if beneath the rubble of his defeat, beneath the ruined towers of blame, of hatred, and disgust with himself and the world–he wonders if that place of stillness, of peace, still exists.

In his search, the pain fades. He is far from it, and he is aware only of the dreamless darkness, and of the sensation of a soft touch on his brow, of a voice speaking, low and gentle, coaxing him to rest.

 _Just rest_.


	2. Inextricably

* * *

Sometimes, his head was only quiet when she was there.

Sometimes, he just wanted her to hold him close, remind him that she–that this thing that bound their hearts together–was real. He needed to know that this one good thing he had, this woman who wanted him more than anyone in the world, would not vanish like morning mist come the dawn. He needed to know that he would not wake up and find himself cold in his cell, having dreamed up every touch, every glance, every smile, and every kiss from her.

And so he went to her wordlessly, unsure of how to ask it of her, unsure that he wanted her to know that she held sway over him. Love, Djeneba had told him, was one of the oldest and most potent magics in the known world, and anyone could conjure it, no mage-blood required.

Was that what this was, then? Was he so inured to his love that he feared losing it? It wasn’t like he hadn’t loved before. But it had never been this…consuming.

She was studying, and he smiled to watch her, always with her nose in some thick dusty tome or yellowed scroll. His princess was a scholar. Mages were just academics who could shoot lightning out of their fingers, and he was reminded every time she talked his ear off about one theory or another. He loved magic as much as she did, found her discoveries interesting, found her _love_ for it interesting.

“You going to stand there and watch me all night?” She murmured, not looking up from her book. Samson realized belatedly he’d not even made it past the chaise by the staircase. He chuckled, tried to swallow everything that had been clamoring for outlet, and made his way to her. Hadiza idly marked her place in her book and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Didn’t want to disturb you,” Samson said in contrition, but his grin was far too mischievous for it to be apologetic and so Hadiza perked a brow in response, “well, I did want to disturb you…but you looked like this was important.” He glanced down at the book, saw several diagrams of various spells and her hastily scribbled notes in the margins.

“It can wait.” She told him rising from her seat. Without preamble, she closed the distance between them, wrapped her arms around him to kiss him soundly. That was something else he never ceased to enjoy: her kissing him with that uninhibited passion. Hadiza played calm and innocent Circle Mage in the public eye, but beneath was something insatiable and volcanic, and all it took was the right touch to get the magma flowing. He could barely keep up with her most nights, but watching her unravel was always pleasing.

“It’s late…” She whispered against his mouth, “let’s go to bed.”

Samson laughed, but not too loud. He was afraid his laughter would ruin the mood. But he took her up on the offer; took her up, down, wherever and however she wanted, and when she was exhausted and thoroughly sated, he lay beside her, catching his breath. His head was clearer, at least, and his balls were empty, but the disquiet was still in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” She asked him, propping her head up on one hand as she lay on her side. Samson turned his head to look at her.

“With me? Aside from you trying to cripple me earlier? Nothing.” He smiled at her reproachful look, then sighed, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. “Nothing serious. Just things weighing on my mind, is all.”

Hadiza was quiet a moment, and he knew she was thinking of how to ask him _what_. He saved her the trouble, and took a chance.

“You spared me to give me a second chance when I didn’t deserve it,” he said gently, “and it’s been almost two years since then…” Hadiza’s brow knit, waiting, her expression pensive but edging toward expectant. Samson swallowed hard.

“Ah, fuck, I’ll just come right out and say it, I guess,” he looked at her, met her eyes, and dove into the abyss, “…I love you. Not just love. You drive me up a wall, and normally I hate that but I don’t mind it so much. And then you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Hadiza’s eyes went wide with alarm and Samson laughed despite himself.

“Well, sometimes like that but you look at me like I’m the most important person in the world. Like you wouldn’t think of going into hell unless you had me with you. And all I can think about is how I don’t deserve any of it.” There it was, then. The source of the disquiet. Hadiza’s expression was grave, then, and he knew the healer in her was working on some sort of remedy. She sat up, running her fingers through her sweat-damp hair.

“I did not spare you, Raleigh Samson,” she said softly, “that you may wallow in self-pity and guilt. I spared you because I knew guilt would galvanize you into choosing to make a change in your life. As I knew it would for everyone else I’ve let live.” She glanced down at him, and her expression never changed, her eyes glittering. It was the same expression she wore when she judged him so long ago.

“If you are worried what the world thinks of our union, then mayhap you should not have been so quick to seek my hand on that rainy beach in Rivain,” Hadiza was a bit angry, but quickly calmed, “but if you are worried that you have not yet done adequate penance for your heinous crimes, then know that I will nor anyone else will ever be able to take full measure of your worth like the Maker will.”

“If there is a Maker,” Samson said, “you think He’d still gather me to His side? After what I’ve done? Even you haven’t forgiven me, Hadiza.”

“Some things I can’t forgive, Samson. You know this. But I can understand the why of it. There was no joy in your misdeeds, and the world may never forgive you for them. But…that is the burden you must bear, Maker or no.”

They were quiet, and for a moment, Samson was angry with her. She had no cause to forgive him. She understood him, understood the ruin he’d brought upon himself two years past, but what he’d done was reprehensible. Still, she loved him despite it all, and when she sensed him slipping into old habits, she was there to nudge him back in the right direction. He did not know if he’d have the strength to do the same in her position.

The root of the problem became deeper, because he lacked the courage to ask her what he truly wanted to know. It was written in his eyes, briefly, then dashed away in the next blink. Hadiza didn’t see it.

_Why do you love me?_

 

 


	3. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The road is long, and the path dark," she laughs, "but we'll be home soon." He rests his hand on the base of his mount's neck as they ride. Home is but a concept...one he has come to understand intimately as not a place, but a feeling.

It is just after dark by the time they reach home. There’s a feeling of trepidation wavering between the moment they’ve housed their mounts in the stables, brushed them down, and broken down the tack, and the moment they walk through their front door. It is born of their long weeks on the road, of weary watches being stood on the lookout for bandits, highwaymen, and opportunists looking to prey on travelers. Their instincts are still in the wild, even as the well-traveled path opens up to the civilized and quaint dwelling of their home. The house is quiet, and there’s a feeling of loneliness within it, as if their little home has missed them in their absence.

Hadiza knows that for Samson, the word ‘home’ carries more weight than any burden he ever took upon himself. He stands within the ingress, taking in this place they have built together, shedding the dead weight of the outside world to become the man who lives here: Raleigh.

The process of unpacking their gear, polishing armor, and freeing themselves of the rough touch of the road is one they have become proficient in. He undresses her first, helping to undo straps, buckles, and latches. Piece by piece, Hadiza’s armor is set aside, and she breathes deep, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he unbuckles her greaves next. For a moment they are still, him on his knees, holding her leg, and she looking down at him. He remembers in that moment that they are married and have been for over two years, now.

As her greaves join the neat pile of armor, he unlaces her boots, sliding them from her feet gently. Hadiza bites her lip on a smile as he massages her feet,  shutting her eyes as he works the tension and soreness from the tender arches, rotating her ankles gently to stimulate blood flow. He has spent nearly his entire life in armor, and he knows where the pain converges after so long. He works his strong grip up along her calf muscles, and smiles at her sigh of contentment as his thumbs pass along the aching muscles in her shins, taut and tender.

When he finishes both her legs, Hadiza wishes to return the favor. She helps him undress next, slower, as if there is something reverent about the process. She takes away his pauldrons, his vambraces, his gloves, everything. When at last he stands before her, a man devoid of the harsh, spiked armor that has struck so much fear into their enemies, she sits him down.

In her own way, she returns the favor, first with her hand, and then with magic. Samson chuckles, feeling the tingle of her magic along the knots in his spine, prickling like droplets of cold water at the base of his skull. The muscles in his legs ease beneath the cool, fog-like feel of healing magic, knitting the tears, and he wiggles his toes on instinct, content that he can at least feel them again after so many weeks trapping his feet in boots.

They bathe together, soaking in the great copper tub of their bathing chamber. She leans back against him, his heart a sure and unwavering cadence against her back. He takes her hand, studying the slender fingers, noting the barely-visible scarring on her knuckles. He knows her scars well, now, can name the time and date and reason for each of them. His thumb passes unhurried along the calluses of her palm, and she spreads her fingers, allowing him to fill the gaps between them with his own.

The house is quiet, but as they move from room to room, lighting lanterns, clearing away dust, and getting a pot cooking for soup, the loneliness ebbs, receding like darkness fleeing the first, nascent rays of the dawn. Warm, standing in clean, dry clothing, with the smell of food wafting in the air, they turn to one another, sharing a knowing smile. Hadiza’s smile is soft, as tender as sunrise, and his is sharp, an old blade unsheathed. He brushes a lock of damp hair from her face, and she laughs, a sound that fills his heart up with brightness even now, with four years behind them.

Life is good.


	4. Of Faith, Power, & Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When all is barred from him, home is where the Chant is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene I had in my notes for _Maledictus_ , but ultimately decided not to include because the narrative was snowballing a different direction at the time. But the scene is briefly alluded to in Samson’s letter to Hadiza in the epilogue.

They made camp in a nameless village not far from Gwaren, if for nothing else, than to keep the very winds of the divine from carrying their presence to any enemies nearby. Aside, while it was known that the Inquisitor had journeyed north on a mysterious errand, and had been missing for a full year, only the small group traveling with her knew she had bound herself to a certain templar on the way back.

The Chantry in the nameless village outside of Gwaren, little more than a ramshackle shelter of four walls, a roof, and a battered effigy of Andraste at the altar, had offered to house the Inquisitor and her band, and it was there they spent the night. Samson took the first watch, as was customary, and as his friends—Maker, his _friends_!—slept, he stood before the battered effigy of Andraste, crude in its making, but enough that the faithful would recognize her.

“It is not much, is it?” The voice of Mother Bethel was soft but pervasive, and Samson looked down at her, saying nothing. No, it wasn’t much, but he’d not shame these poor folk for their faith. Two years ago, he might have. Mother Bethel’s knotted fingers brushed the altar, the worn out cloth, obviously hand-me-downs from donations, and laughed to herself.

“When I was younger,” she told him, “I had dreams that I would better serve the faithful if the Chantry of my posting were outfitted with the same lavish trappings as the ones in the larger cities. If my sermons were backed by some tall, ineffable statue of Andraste, that somehow the will of the Maker Himself would infuse my words with power.”

Samson snorted. “A lofty goal, Mother,” he said, trying to keep the sneer out of his voice, “not like your type to reach for such things.”

“Well, Ser Templar,” Mother Bethel said, “if stories are to be believed, it is unlike a templar to lead an army of abominations to destroy the world.”

Samson winced. “Guess I should have kept my fool mouth shut.” He muttered. Mother Bethel laughed.

“You’ll find no judgement here, I assure you,” she told him, “over the years I have seen men and women with far darker goals. Though, none of them had quite the means to act upon them as you did.” Samson shot her a dark look.

“In any case,” she continued, “my point is this: this effigy of Andraste, crude as it may be, is merely that: an effigy. It has no special powers to infuse my words with the will of the Maker. Only faith and conviction can do that.”

Samson crossed his arms. “Well the Maker’s been rather absent these last few thousand years. Don’t think anything in the world has the power to bind his will.”

Mother Bethel smiled. “No. Nothing made by our mortal hands could ever hope to bind such incomprehensible power. But tell me: when you spoke the words today; the ones that bound you to Her Worship…did you mean them?”

Samson turned to her, his expression serious. “Yes.” He said, and the word dropped between them, heavy with truth. Bethel nodded.

“Why did you ask to be married here if you had already been married in Rivain? Were their customs not enough?”

Samson looked away. “Not how I was raised,” he said quietly, “neither one of us, actually. For all the pomp and ceremony, none of her political enemies or allies would ever acknowledge our marriage as legitimate unless we bound ourselves before the Maker. We wanted to…cover o—why are you asking me this?”

“No reason,” Mother Bethel said, “it just seems that for a man who spoke with faith and conviction just this afternoon, you seem doubtful of the Maker and His Bride this evening.”

Samson was silent, unable to meet her gaze. Bethel shifted on her feet, and outside even the crickets had fallen silent as the night deepened around them.

“Life has been unkind to you, Ser Samson,” she said, “I do not need to probe you with questions to see that. But I think part of you wishes to have faith that the Maker has not truly abandoned us. Abandoned you.”

“You might be right.” Samson muttered darkly, “And I might be wrong. But there’s no way to tell, is there?”

Mother Bethel chuckled. “Oh, Samson,” she said, “that is the very point of having faith. Our lives—our very world—is rife with uncertainty. Faith is the compass with which we navigate the chaos.”

Samson snorted. “That may be,” he agreed, begrudging her point, “but the Chantry ain’t what it was when I first took my vows. Used to stand for all that was good in the world. Used to mean something to people. Used to be it wasn’t a sword used to cut down anyone who didn’t fall in line.”

“And it still does,” Bethel said, “the corruption within the clergy does not lie on the head of Andraste and her faithful. It lies in the fault of humanity. Even so, the clergy you have seen may not look like much, but it doesn’t change faith, does it?”

Samson swallowed. “But the people follow the lead of you and yours, Mother. If you and yours are out here preaching that mages are evil and should be locked away and branded like animals, then the people are going to follow.” He gestured around, toward some far away place. “Look how easy it was for Corypheus to gain a following. You want to talk about faith and uncertainty? Corypheus fed us the same promise and hope the Chantry does…and people flocked to it.”

Bethel was quiet, her gaze steady. Samson frowned.

“Oh.” He said at last. “I see.” In the distance, he heard the stir of a pallet, and blinked, looking over his shoulder. Mother Bethel made her way back out of the Chantry, passing a tired Dorian as he pulled on his armor and coat to take over the watch from Samson. Samson stripped out of his armor, noting a book tucked under the mage’s arm.

“Say nothing,” Dorian warned, “it’s your wedding night. **Again**. And reading is the only way I’ll be able to drown out the racket you two make.”

Samson grinned halfheartedly. “Might cut you a break tonight, Vint,” he laughed, “I’m tired.”

Dorian raised one skeptical brow. “That so? If I had a silver for every time I’ve heard you complain of fatigue or some part of your damned body being sore and _stiff_ only to crawl into Hadiza’s bed and—“

“Alright, alright.” Samson warned, “I’m not _that_ tired but if she’s up and—”

“Oh for pity’s sake!” Dorian muttered, earning a dark laugh from the older man. Dorian took up the watch, and waited as he read. To his surprise, the night was blessedly quiet for once.

Samson, for his part, ruminated on the old Mother’s words. He thought of the crude effigy of Andraste. It wasn’t much, but the faithful likely did not care. It did nothing to change their heart.

He shut his eyes and prayed.


	5. Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what it means to champion a lady like in the old tales. But the tales never mention the scars one would bear for the sake of duty. Nor the guilt they evoke for the sake of love.

His armor would need serious repairs when they got back to Skyhold. She was no smith, but she had procured some of the best in the long months of the Inquisition’s formation. For his part, his torn flesh and fractured bones could be mended by her own hand. That duty she would entrust to no one. After all, she had spared his life and recruited him when all of the world called for his blood. She would ask no one to heal him for her.

She could scream at him later for being so foolish and reckless with his life. Hadiza swallowed her anger, locked it away, knowing that to heal when angry would ruin her handiwork and hinder her progress. Aside, anger drained mana as quickly as any templar. She had learned the import and merit of patience in her time as a healer, and would not squander those lessons because her lover thought he could fight as if he were a young man of twenty again.

“You’re lucky,” she murmured in their tent as she inspected the clawed furrows that curved around his ribs, “it could have torn you apart had I not disrupted the rift in time.” Samson was silent, knowing that just beneath the cool and clinically detached surface was a woman who was _wroth_ with him. He would not dare speak a word in protest when she was brandishing needles, thread, and stinging unguents on her fingers.

“Harritt will see to your armor when we return to Skyhold,” she continued, ignoring his hiss of pain as she–as gently as her fury would allow–smoothed the pungent camphor along the wounds. His ribs expanded in a deep inhale, nostrils flaring as he shut his eyes against the sea of red that washed over his nerves. She must have been supremely angry with him, then.

“So,” he said, “you want me to be one of the infirm for the duration of the journey? Is that it?”

Hadiza cleaned her hands, drying them on a fresh linen cloth, saying nothing.

“Hadiza.” Her name only, and she couldn’t help herself, she met his gaze, eyes glittering like the edge of a blade. “I did what you asked. You know what I am. What I’ll always be. You can’t fault me for that.”

Words hovered in her mouth, soaking her tongue in her fury. If she spoke, she’d breathe fire at him. He knew damn well what he’d done. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and then exhaled sharply.

“You are a templar, Raleigh,” and she saw him shift at the mention of his name, “you are _my_ templar. I know. But you…you don’t always have to put yourself between me and the dangers we face.”

“Why not?” He asked her, “Is that not my duty? Maker’s sodding Blood, Hadiza, you can’t ask me to do what I do best and then be angry with the result! I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself. Maker, I’ve two missing teeth to prove it. But you’re my–”

Hadiza’s eyes flashed. “Don’t say it.” She warned. “We freed ourselves of such bindings. This is not…this is _not_ the Circle.”

“And don’t I well know it.” Samson shot back. “You’re not my charge, Hadiza. Andraste’s Tears you are so much more than that. And part of that means that sometimes I will take a hit where you don’t have to.” He gestured to the angry furrows along his skin and Hadiza frowned harder.

“This is nothing.” He assured her, “If it means you’re safe and alive to fight another day, then I will have fulfilled my duties as a templar and…as your…”

Hadiza shut her eyes. She knew he was right. He did what he’d been trained from boyhood to do. The Chantry had turned him away for his compassion, and he’d aimed the sword of his rage at the heart of the world. Hadiza had been the shield to deflect it. And somehow she’d found a way to help him redirect his purpose. He needed someone to protect. Something to fight for, even if it was the woman who had been his sworn enemy.

 _Let it be me_. She thought grimly. No one else saw in him what she did. Samson’s expression told her everything she needed to know, and so she resigned herself to this. He watched her work, lifting his arm as he was told, turning this way and that as directed, gritting his teeth as she stitched him back together. Only when the stitches were completed did she lay her healing magic on him, and he went limp and boneless at the feel of it, the taste of honey flooding his mouth, making his tongue slow and thick with longing.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he said when the feeling passed, “I shouldn’t have worried you.” Hadiza paused, running her fingers over the fresh, pink scar tissue, satisfied with her handiwork.

“I know.” She murmured, begrudging him his small victory, “But if you do that again I swear by the Maker I’ll have you clapped in irons.”

Samson grinned, listening to the low murmur of her anger as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I look forward to it.”


	6. Brightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson is feeling thirsty.

There are many reasons why Samson shouldn’t go after her, but chief among them is that he knows his blood is too hot. If he follows, if she allows it, he will peel her out of that expensive mess of a gown and do things to her for the sake of hearing what new, delighted sounds he can drag from her lovely throat.

So he grits his teeth and holds fast, watching her ascend the stairs. He can see the curve of her ass in that gown, and the lace reveals all the miles of black gold skin. He bites his lip when he remembers how she whispered to him that she’d neglected small clothes. In that instant, he was hard as stone–painfully so. All he’d wanted was to back her into some shadowy corner, lift up her dress and–

“Decorum.” Vivienne’s voice is a cold wind over the grave, and Samson feels its effects instantly, and realizes that she has in fact struck him with cold magic.

“Maker’s shitting breath!” He hisses under his breath. “What’d you do that for?”

Vivienne raises a brow, not deigning to answer him. Samson sighs deeply, silently relieved for Vivienne’s subtle dig. It has cooled his blood significantly, and he must focus instead of Hadiza’s purpose for being here, and not the curves of her breasts, glowing enticingly with that starlight oil she rubs into her skin. He must not think of the curve of her smile, coy and tender, the sparkle in her eye as she bats her lashes at this noble or that. The way her throat curves, swan-like and elegant, with all of that hair of hers upswept into a diadem of gold encrusted with rubies. He quaffs his wine to wet his lips, to think of anything but Hadiza Trevelyan garbed in little more than pearl-encrusted embroidered lace.

The night is long, and the path dark _indeed_.

Samson downs goblet after goblet of wine, and the lights begin to dance and wink brighter with each cup. Hadiza dances with several nobles, men and women alike. Her dance card is full, and they flock to her like bees to a fresh-bloomed flower. He watches her laugh, thoroughly entertained, knows it is genuine, and watches her demure, and knows it is not. Will he dare ask her for a dance? He should not care that all eyes are upon her, and that if he does, will track him like a hawk does the hare.

He should not care who sees him with her, but Vivienne’s icy warning lingers in his bones, and he plays the part of accoutrement to the Inquisitor’s entourage. He contents himself with the fantasy of asking her for a dance, of having his footing sure and deft, of taking her around the dance floor in a waltz, or dancing close enough to be scandalous, as the Antivans do. He imagines her retiring with him, burning the blood of every noble twit seeking her favor. He wants them green with envy, wants them to know that when the Inquisitor beds down for the night, it is with him–their hated enemy–and not anyone else.

It is a pleasant fantasy, one he knows Hadiza would disapprove of if she knew, and so he nurses it in the recesses of his mind, the wine making him drowsy.

It seems hours before Hadiza is freed from the party as it winds down, wanting to retire for the evening. She carries her shoes in her hand when they return to the guest wing, and Samson finally walks with her. Without the frighteningly high heels, the dress’ effect is…less impactful. Instead, it looks overtly lavish–almost garish–to him. Hadiza holds onto Samson for support, her eyes bright with mirth, and he knows the wine is finally beginning to settle in her blood.

Retiring that evening, he helps her peel out of the dress, and she crawls out of the gown and into the bed, hugging one of the pillows with a sigh of relief. Naked, with nothing but her jeweled necklace, her ruby drop earrings, and her diadem, Samson likens her to a tired queen. She is sprawled lazily on the bed, and when she turns over to look at him, the invitation is clear.

“Had a good time, princess?” He asks, reaching for one of her legs. Hadiza leans back against the support of the many pillows on the bed, groans when Samson begins to massage her aching feet. She nods, her diadem askew on her head, freeing a few coils of her ink dark hair. She makes noises of approval when Samson’s thumbs press into the tender arches of her feet, easing the tension and ache from there to her heels and down to her toes. He smiles at her pleasure, kisses the places he’s touched, tickling her feet and making her snort with laughter. When he slides his hands to her calves to massage them, Hadiza melts, sinking into the duvet.

“Mmmm…you should have just been a masseuse instead of a knight…” She says. Her diadem falls off of her head and onto the carpeted floor. Samson retrieves it and places it back on her head. Hadiza fixes it to the best of her ability, freeing her hair in the process. In truth, she looks even more beautiful, like a true princess from the old tales.

“Why? So you can have me at your beck and call?” Samson asks teasingly, filling the empty space between her legs. She spreads for him easily, heedless of her own nudity. Samson has already done away with his doublet, and feels himself growing hard at the sight of her. He palms her bottom, squeezing, drags her to the edge of the bed. Hadiza laughs.

“You are already at my beck and call.” She says lazily. “Mm…you going to fuck me now, my gallant knight?”

Samson traces the opening of her sex with his fingertip, and watches her shiver.

“That depends, princess. You want me to?” He won’t if she’s tired, but Hadiza sits up, reaching for him. She grabs his shirt, pulls him closer, making him stumble.

“Every time I had to dance with one of those Orlesians all I thought about was how good it would feel to have you split my back in half at the end of the night.”

Samson feels a great rush of heat to his loins. Hadiza is polite, sweet, possibly the kindest woman he has ever known, but when she wants him she has no qualms about being absolutely filthy about it. And he _loves_ that about her. He rubs at her sex idly, finds her wet.

“You don’t have to lie, princess.” He teases. “Your thighs should be wet if you were thinking about me that much.”

“They _were_.” Hadiza counters, wrapping her legs around his waist, watching him with a hunger in her eyes he cannot name as he unlaces his breeches and frees his cock. It is heavy and hot in his hand, flushed dark with arousal. Hadiza licks her lips. Her lipstick is smeared along her mouth, and Samson remembers smugly that the last time he saw her like this was…

He stumbles as she pulls him atop her, and he catches himself on his arms. Without thinking, their lips meet, their breathing deep and heavy. Samson moves forward, seeking leverage, and they struggle, a tangle of limbs, until with one surge, he’s inside of her. She opens for him and her head falls back as she cries out. Samson won’t lie–will never lie–the first time he’s inside her is always the best. It is wet and hot and comforting, and he feels something well up in him like magma through the cracks of his soul.

He wants to fuck her, yes; wants her shaking apart with the force of her climax, and wants to fill her with his seed and taste himself on her slick flesh. But he wants to make love too. He wants to rock her gently, wants to watch as she shivers and clings to him, wants to get them _there_ slow and easy. They are still in this moment, and he buries his face in the wealth of her hair, heedless of her diadem which has tumbled again to the floor. Hadiza sighs, looping her arms lazily around his neck. She is still and quiet, her breathing slow and easy. Samson narrows his eyes, and for a moment he does not believe what he’s seeing and hearing.

She’s fast asleep.


	7. Underneath the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to have her to himself, wrapped into the soft, warm darkness of the night, their skin dappled by starlight.

Somehow, they’d managed to pry themselves from the nosey attentions of her family. Hadiza, doffing her bridal regalia and trading it for simple robes (if one could call damask silk _simple_ ), invited him to venture beyond House Fayé’s walls, into the countryside within its demesne. The foothills were ripe with all manner of plants for Hadiza to gather for medicinal use, and when she had forsaken pretense, her basket of fragrant jasmine blooms forgotten, they lay beside one another on the slope of a hill.

“Could never see the stars this clearly in Kirkwall,” he told her, and then laughed, “then again…when you live in the gutter, you spend more time looking down than at the damned sky.”

Hadiza breathed deep. “Do you miss it?” She asked, “Kirkwall, I mean.”

Samson hesitated, unsure. It was a question that brought with it the weight of memory, and he had trouble separating the good from the bad, which often bound themselves to one another.

“Sometimes,” he said instead, “it was a shithole of a city, but it was home to me for a long time.” He tried to ignore the subtle shit next to him as Hadiza rolled to her side.

“Do you miss Ostwick?” He asked, and Hadiza laughed.

“Maker, no…” She said, and her voice turned sad, “Ostwick has not been home to me since…since I was sent to the Circle.”

“I can’t imagine the Circle being home to someone like you.” At her arch look, he laughed, “You’re one of those…I don’t know…guess I’d call you a _true_ mage. You love your gifts. But not in that way that makes an old templar like me go on alert.”

Hadiza snorted. “Liar. You’re always on alert. I wouldn’t have impressed you into my service otherwise.” Her eyes were surprisingly bright in the starlight, and he realized that’s why he found her so unnerving to behold.

“Who says you impressed me into service?” He asked her in a low voice, and Hadiza bit her lip at the undercurrent of desire in his voice.

“Maybe I seduced you with some sort of forbidden magic.” Hadiza teased, goading him further, “We mages are a tricky lot if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Your head gets any bigger and you’ll float away, princess. Mages can be tricky, but not to me.” Samson retorted, reaching for her. Hadiza’s smile was slow to bloom, almost sly, and she leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, shrieking with laughter when he tugged her on top of him in a tight embrace.


	8. Circum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is used to darting, quickly, light on the balls of her feet, springing between enemies, and retreating before they know she’s struck.

One morning, in the midst of his own exercises, Hadiza opts to join him. She’s moving slowly, and he can tell without looking that she’s only just crawled from bed. Clad in only a tunic, leggings, and boots, neither of them seem prepared to tackle the day’s problems.

But that is no reason to let idyllic days like these dull their respective edges.

Hadiza straps on her harness, securing the gauntlet to her left arm. With a little concentration the lyrium veins within glow, powering the fingers. They move, stiff-jointed, but functional. It is a fledgling invention, a convergence of brilliance between Dagna, herself, and Dorian, in an effort to allow her a chance to hold a sword properly once more.

“How are you able to stay in one place for so long?” She asks him as he finishes one of his exercises, lowering the blade with a slow and controlled movement. Samson grins.

“You move around too much, you can lose your footing pretty easily.” He tells her, watching her test the weight of a practice blade in her gauntleted hand, “Better to make the enemy come to you, force them to find ground to stand on. Then knock them clear on their asses. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Hadiza may be groggy, but she never passes up an opportunity to learn.

Samson’s hands are tentative, hovering around her waist. With a nod, Hadiza smiles at him and he gently positions her into a relaxed fighting stance.

“What you have to keep in mind,” he tells her, “is that the battlefield isn’t a square like you see on the gameboard. It’s overlapping circles. You’re liable to be attacked from all sides. Don’t much matter what weapon.” Samson uses the tip of his sword to draw a circle around her. It’s just wide enough for her to assume a more aggressive fighting position, but no more than that.

“This is your personal space,” he explains, “the goal is to keep your enemy on the other side of this boundary, and to do it as quickly as possible. Don’t waste time dancing about. In and out.”

Hadiza nods understanding. Her instructor, Old Ricardo, had taught her something similar when dual-wielding blades. Samson walks her through the steps, gently adjusting here and there, angling her sword to block, showing her how to parry, all while staying within the tight boundary he’s set. Hadiza laughs when she stumbles.

“You know,” she tells him, “for someone who claims not to be much of a dancer, you’re remarkably talented with footwork.”

Samson snorts, and tests her stands by knocking the back of her knee. Hadiza nearly drops, but catches herself, bringing her sword to angle across her body to block Samson’s gentle blow.

“That shouldn’t have happened.” He chides her but there’s something warm in his eyes as he steps back. “Run it again. You’re a better dancer than I am, wife. Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.”

And so Hadiza shows him, walking through the steps of the forms he taught her, and she realizes her muscles are not trained for such endurance. By the time she finishes, sweat darkens her tunic, and she’s panting, lungs and thighs burning from the movements. She is used to darting, quickly, light on the balls of her feet, springing between enemies, and retreating before they know she’s struck.

Samson knows this and smiles indulgently.

“You’ve got the steps, at least,” he says with a shrug, “we’ll work on putting some fight behind them later. For now, let’s go through the concept of the circle…”

For the rest of the morning, Samson teaches her the concepts of templar fighting, of establishing a new boundary when she moves.

“The ideal,” he tells her, pointing to the overlapping circles in the dirt, “is that if you’re facing down a small army, there should be bodies all around you, but outside this boundary.”

Hadiza grimaces. “That’s a bit morbid.” She laughs. Samson shrugs.

“The Chantry still preaches that guardian nonsense but we’re trained to kill. These swords aren’t decoration.” He smiles at her, and Hadiza smiles back. The sun climbs higher, and in the distance, the chime hanging above their door signifies they’ve got a guest.

“Time to go to work.” He says, and Hadiza replaces her practice sword. He offers his arm, a habit after their morning rituals, and she links hers with his, and they head inside.


	9. Haka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Samson doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sprawl of the Trevelyan Estate, and it’s just as well he doesn’t. Hadiza’s father wants his head on a pike and is loathe to allow him under the same roof as his daughter.

Right now, Samson is in the same bed as Bann Trevelyan’s eldest daughter, trying to get her to scream.

“Raleigh!” Hadiza hisses, her back arching, further pushing her exposed breast into his mouth. Samson ignores her, rolling her nipple between his teeth lightly, chuckling as she squirms beneath him, a breathy sound rushing from her in the next exhale. He sucks hard, cheeks hollowing, tormenting the puffy little bud with his rough tongue until Hadiza’s legs flail, attempting to close around him instinctively.

Samson pulls away from her breast with a wet pop, memorizing the seismic rhythm of her pleasure as it dies down. He allows her reprieve only because she’s glaring at him.

“Do you want my father to hear us?” She demands as Samson casually slides his hands down her legs, up, and just under her knees. He begins to push her legs back and apart, the moonlight the only way he can see the gloss of her arousal at the apex between her thighs.

“Yes.” He says, lowering his head. His tongue is gentle, but he is eager for a taste of her. Hadiza denies him, shifting her hips away. Samson glances up at her sharply.

“You’re a wicked, wicked man, Raleigh Samson.” She says freeing one of her legs to push at him with her foot. Samson will not bow for her, and instead, takes her foot in his hand, and kisses the arch tenderly. She laughs, and her body is pliant once more. Before he can resume his task, she twists again, onto her belly, and Samson laughs at her attempt to close herself to him. He pins her hips to the bed, forcing an arch in her back, and the sight of her ass in the air makes him hard as silverite.

“You going to behave tonight, princess?” He asks, “Or do you want your father to hear what I do to you when you don’t?”

In the silence, beneath the silver of the moon, he hears her excited little gasp and he grins.

“Up.” He says, and she rises under his guiding hands, onto her knees, her head resting on the pillow. He applies the lightest pressure to her legs and she spreads them for him. He tests her with a single finger, swearing softly as she parts easily. Fuck, he can _hear_ how wet she is, now. The little minx has been toying with him for her own enjoyment.

Good.

Samson doesn’t hesitate, he simply buries his face between her thighs, meeting the lips of her cunt in an open-mouthed and needful kiss. Hadiza cries out, immediately buries her face in the pillow. Samson’s tongue sweeps along the moist slit, lapping at her in even, languorous strokes. He knows it won’t be long, and he can hear the sounds leaking from the pillow as she stuffs it between her teeth. It’s not enough. Hadiza pushes back against the gentle thrust of his tongue, craving something with a much longer reach, but he denies her, sucking her inner lips, tracing the entrance with the tip.

“Raleigh!” He hears her practically sob out when he mouths her clit with a gentle pressure that is almost maddening. He doesn’t answer her, he simply keeps going. The shudder starts in the base of her spine and moves upward, and before she comes, he pulls away.

Hadiza glares at him from over her shoulder, and smiling, with her coating his lips and chin, Samson gets up on his knees, gripping his cock in his fist. He’s hot and throbbing, and she’s more than ready for him. He doesn’t ask with words, and she doesn’t answer with her mouth.

_Yes._

He will never tire of being inside of her, he realizes. He eases in, feels the pressure of her surrounding him, hot and slippery. He watches, enraptured, as his cock vanishes into her, her cunt hugged tight around it to the base. For a moment, he simply waits. She shuddering, one hand planted on the headboard, nails scraping the wood, the other holding the duvet in a white-knuckled grip. Samson reaches down, traces her cunt’s lips stretched tight around his cock.

Hadiza let’s out a strangled sound and tries to move against him.

“I see…” He says in a low voice, “…you like that, do you?” He repeats the motion, this time giving the lips a squeeze to see her reaction. Hadiza nearly crumples.

And then he begins to move.

He doesn’t play nice with her anymore, spreading her legs wider, holding her hips, and making her take him. She doesn’t want her father to hear, of course, but she knows he will. Hadiza is _loud_  in her passions, and even more so when Samson shirks civility for the savagery he puts behind his thrusts. She can’t hold the pillow in her mouth because it’s locked in an open-mouthed cry; a single, throaty sound, choked off with each pull of her rear against his hips. For a brief time, the only sound in the room is his hips on her ass, the headboard being scraped desperately by her nails, and her forgetting that this was her father’s house.

Hadiza lets go of her propriety and screams. She is completely at Samson’s mercy, and he loves it. He watches himself vanish in and out of her, watches that familiar sheen of sweat appear in the hollow of her spine. The sight alone is enough to make him come, and he does with a grunt, yanking her hips back until he’s buried in her, filling her with his seed. His hands are trembling when he releases her hips, and he slowly, carefully slides from her, hissing from the sensitivity and sitting back on his heels. Hadiza collapses onto her side, heedless of the slick on her inner thighs.

“Will he kill me at breakfast, do you think?” Samson asks and barely has the energy to do anything but laugh tiredly as a pillow hits him full in the chest.

 

 


	10. Eyes, Lips, Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You lot are always going on in that blasted tongue of yours," he grouses, "and I only know one phrase, and it's not the one I'm like to say to anyone but you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Domina to write some language lessons smut. I supplanted the Rivaini language with my own. NSFW.

“Alright, alright,” Samson laughed, deep in his belly, “you got me there. I don’t know enough Rivaini to make sense of what you’re telling me.”

Hadiza propped her head up on one hand, using her free hand to circle one finger around his chest.

“Going to have to teach you, hm?” She asked him, then grinned when he took her hand to bring her fingers to his lips.

“Don’t let it go to your head, princess,” he told her, “and don’t expect me to be quacking away with the rest of your kin in a day. Never was much for languages.”

Hadiza pinched his lips making him grunt.

“Well, we will start with the basics: body parts.” She sat up, and he followed, propping himself back against the headboard to watch her. As if it were more inescapable physics than need, Hadiza swung one leg over to straddle him.

“If this is how all our lessons go, princess,” Samson’s hands came to her waist, “I might make an effort.” He chuckled when she swatted his hands away. Then, Hadiza reached forward, and tapped his forehead, then traced his face with her fingertips, mapping its contours and lines with care.

“Face,” she told him, “ _fuskar_.”

“Fuskar.” Samson repeated. Hadiza smiled, then smoothed her fingertips along his brows.

“Eyebrow,” she said, “ _gira_.”

“Gira.” Samson mimicked and shut his eyes as her fingertips traveled lower, then the pressure was gone, replaced by her lips. She kissed his eyelids, first one, then the other, as gentle as he’d ever been kissed. He smiled, keeping his eyes closed.

“Eyes,” she whispered, “ _idanu_.”

“Ida…” He murmured and lifted his head, trying to find her mouth. Hadiza drew away and swatted his arm. 

“Idanu.” He grumbled, opening his eyes. “Why’d you kiss me?”

“You are handsome,” Hadiza told him, “when your eyes are closed you look…” She thought for a moment, “... _kamar sarkin_.”

“And what does that mean?” Samson asked. Hadiza grinned.

“A lesson for another day,” she told him, then traced his nosed with her fingertips, tapping the tip once, “Nose. _Hanci._ ”

“Hanci.” Samson repeated, never breaking her gaze, but his hands were on her waist again, and this time she did not swat them away. Instead, her fingertips rested on his lips, and he kissed each of them, slow and deliberate, while she watched.

“Mouth.” She whispered, swallowing visibly. “ _Bakin_.”

Samson smiled, and sucked one of her fingers into his mouth. Hadiza clamped her teeth around a small sound at the feel of his tongue. He released her.

“Bakin.” He murmured. Hadiza hesitated, struggling to reassert her thoughts. When her eyelids fluttered, Samson chuckled, waiting. She’d called him a wolf once, and he had not disabused her of the notion. He could wait.

“Now we test you,” she told him, resting her hands on his shoulders.

“Face?” She asked. Samson’s grip on her waist grew tight.

“What do I get if I’m right?” He asked and Hadiza narrowed her eyes.

“…fus… _fuskar_.” Samson laughed. Hadiza leaned forward and kissed his forehead, both his cheeks, and then his chin. Samson smiled. 

“Ask me another.” He murmured and felt the slight shiver in her body. He’d pitched his voice just low enough to get under her skin, and he felt the tightness of her thighs around his legs.

“Nose.”

“ _Hanci_.” She smiled at his confident reply. His Marcher drawl made the word sound both foreign and familiar, but it was the right one.

Another kiss, this time at the tip of his nose.

“Eyes." 

“ _Idanu_.”

She kissed his eyelids.

“Eyebrow.”

“ _Gira_.” His pronunciation was strange; the tip of his tongue didn’t touch the roof of his mouth. The syllables were softer, but he was right.

She kissed his brows, and as she pulled away, Samson stopped her just far enough to meet her gaze.

“Mouth.” He murmured, “ _Bakin_.”

And Hadiza kissed his mouth, melting against him. His hands smoothed up her back, even as the silence of the room was suddenly heavy, broken apart by their shifting, the overwriting of sentences with lips and tongue, and sharp, panting breaths. 

“Raleigh,” she whispered, “I have to ask you…”

“That’s all you taught me, princess,” Samson murmured back, against her throat, which he kissed, making her moan, “unless you’ve got more lessons. I’m all ears.”

Hadiza was quiet a moment, even as his mouth planted a path along her collarbone, his teeth nipping her shoulder. Her head tipped back as he kissed the valley between her breasts.

“I’m listening, princess.” He told her, tongue tracing a wet path to one breast, his mouth closing on a nipple. Hadiza’s mouth dropped open in a soundless cry.

“ _Na san_ …” She whispered and Samson pulled away wetly, peering up at her.

“Mm…and what’s that?” He asked her, but before she could collect a thought to answer him, he attended to her other breast, kneading the other, callused thumb circling her nipple gently.

It was just as well they were both naked, because Samson couldn’t wait much longer. When he was inside of her, the lessons became obsolete. He learned Rivaini with each stroke, lifting her up and down along the length of him.

“… _â…_ ” Her breathing came out in a whine in her chest, and she clung to him, burying her face in his neck as they moved both as one and apart.

“Keep talking, princess,” he murmured to her, “I’m listening.”

Hadiza spoke, syllables crowding her throat, until she stitched together words in her tongue with a moan of relief.

“ _Ba su daina_ …!” She whimpered, again and again, and Samson understood in some part of himself, exactly what she wanted him to do. Hadiza’s nails bit into his skin as she held on, sweat beading along the shallow of her spin.

Samson slowed his pace, giving her only a moment to catch her breath.

“Tell me what this is.” He kissed her neck, sweat-slick skin salty on his lips.

“ _Wuyansa_ …” She whispered. Samson moved her slowly, rocking her up and down. Maker, she was wet, and hotter than usual.

“Mm,” he whispered, “and what’s this, here?” His lips traced her jawline. Hadiza laughed, breathless.

“ _Mu_ ƙ _amu_ ƙ _i_.” She murmured and Samson chuckled.

“We’ll work on that one.” He told her. “Now, what’s this called?” And he grinned as Hadiza gasped, hips rocking forward as his fingertip circled her clit.

She couldn’t answer. It didn’t matter, she’d tell him anything if he asked it of her.

“Come on, princess,” he said, “I love when you talk to me.”

Hadiza moved instead, her hips rocking insistently, trying to coax him. Samson focused his willpower. She was slick and tight, and Andraste’s tears if he didn’t maintain some control he’d spend.

She talked to him as she moved, a quiet tone, right in his ear, all in Rivaini.

“ _Ina son azzakari a gare ni kamar wannan._ ” She whispered, and Samson imagined the filth he was receiving. “ _Amma ina son shi more on my baya.”_

Samson narrowed his eyes. He recognized none of the words save two, but he had a feeling. Hadiza gasped, then let out a shout as Samson rolled them both, slipping out of her in the process. He rose up on his knees, reaching forward to grasp her hips.

“Samson…” The question that hovered in her mouth was supplanted by as choked cry as he shoved himself in her once more, grinning harshly in the low light. For a moment, he looked down at her, smiling. The wolf prowled beneath his skin, jaws open, and Hadiza welcomed the killing blow when she came, the very thought of him sending her spiraling.

Only then did he move, riding her hard. The sound she made was new, accompanied by the words she’d whispered before, only now she sang them in a mindless chorus, beseeching him, and he parted her again and again, until he felt her shudder, felt her legs close around him, forcing him to stay. Samson relinquished his control, spending himself with a curse, gripping her hips hard enough to leave imprints, his nails leaving little grooves in her skin.

The bedroom was quiet save for their panting.

“What…” He asked her after a moment, “…do you call that?”

Hadiza blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted as she struggled to come back to herself.

“ _Inzali_.” She whispered as Samson collapsed by her side on his back. 

“Maker’s Breath…” He said, “…what was all that you were saying to me?”

Hadiza turned her head to look at him, smiled and told him. Samson’s laughter could be heard down the empty halls.

“I’m not sure which I like more: when you’re filthy in Rivaini or the King’s Speech.” He tugged a lock of her hair. He spoke again, softer this time. “And before…when you told me what I looked like with my eyes closed…?”

This time, Hadiza leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his surprised mouth. She traced her lips along his stubbled jaw, to his ear, and whispered. This time, Samson did not laugh, and instead responded in kind, and much more thoroughly than before.

“ _Ina son ki_.” He whispered, swallowing her delighted laugh in a deep kiss.

* * *

 

(Art by Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _kamar sarkin_ \- Like a prince.
> 
>  _Na san_ \- I know.
> 
>  _Â_ \- Yes (more or less, it’s more of a tonal sound than a word)
> 
>  _Ba su daina_ \- Don’t stop.
> 
>  _Ina son azzakari a gare ni kamar wannan_. - I love your cock in me like this.
> 
>  _Amma ina son shi more on my baya_. - But I love it more on my back.
> 
>  _Inzali_ \- Orgasm.
> 
>  _Ina son ki_. - I love you (when addressing a woman). First phrase Samson ever learned in Rivaini.


	11. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you remember the first time we spoke?" She asks. His cheeks redden in shame, remembering. It is a time that feels far away, as if it is someone else's life, and not the man he is, now.

Breaking him should not have been necessary. He’d given his word, for however little it was worth, and complied.

That was, until Cullen started asking questions.

_Where are the locations of the remaining templar camps?_

Samson was stubborn and reticent, determined to have this one last victory, knowing it was fruitless, knowing in the end, it would gain him nothing but a noose about his neck and the release of death that should have been a mercy.

But knowing what he knew of the Maker, knowing what he’d done, death offered no comfort either.

In the two weeks of Cullen’s questioning, and Samson’s clamped teeth even as the pangs of lyrium thirst dried the root of his tongue and the passage of his throat, he got his victory. The Commander of the Inquisition scoffed, throwing up his hands and leaving him to the cold, listless solitude of his cell.

In the days that followed, Samson hated himself for missing the endless interrogations, and found himself missing a life long lost to him. He remained in stillness on his cot most hours, content to count the weathered grooves in the stone, if only to let his mind run far and away from the guilt and shame that gnawed at the already frayed edges of his sanity.

The other prisoners never spoke to him, and he did not blame them. He had been their hope of Corypheus’ success, and to see the Red General brought low before the Chantry’s faithful was a mighty blow to their morale. Whatever faith they’d had in him was lost in the Arbor Wilds amidst a sea of bodies. It was just as well; Samson wanted no idle chatter to eat away the hours. Not with men and women who still had hope to redeem themselves; for when they departed to whatever sentence the Inquisitor saw fit to give them, he would miss them too.

It was just after dusk when the prison door opened. Samson heard murmurs from the guards posted at the door, heard the shift in their tone, the nervous creak and clatter of their armor, and a woman’s voice, low and gentle as a summer breeze. Samson debated for a moment, and finally aimed to sit up, propping himself against the wall. If he was to speak with _her_ , he would do so from the last remaining place of strength the drab and dank surrounds could afford him.

He saw her boots, first, soft buckskin leather, well-tailored, strong and sturdy stitching, and her leggings, damask silk patterned with vines. He looked up at her, and saw the thieved starlight that passed as her eyes. Her expression was neither grim nor cold, but Samson could not make sense of it.

“Come to finish what your precious Commander started, Inquisitor?” He asked her, his tone edging into a venomous bite that he knew would not move her. The Inquisitor tilted her head, and smiled.

“No, Samson,” her voice was gentle, “there’s nothing to finish. I’m here to talk.”

Samson’s lip curled. The gall of this woman.

“To _talk_.” He spat, limning the word in disgust. “What could such a high and mighty woman like you have to talk about with filth like me?”

The Inquisitor leaned against the bars, shutting her eyes.

“Nothing if you would prefer silence,” she said softly, “but I find that talking helps to break up the monotony of what could possibly be a trying time for you.”

“Does it, now?” Samson asked nastily. “And how’d you become such an expert on what’s good for me?”

She raised her hands, turning them palms up, lifting her shoulders in a droll shrug.

“As I said,” she replied, “we could be silent if you prefer.”

“I do.” Samson snapped. The Inquisitor’s smile never waned.

“Very well.”

And then she sat. She was close enough that he could smell the warm, gentle scent, an unnamed flower or spice that scented her hair, skin, and clothes. She sat on the dirty ground on the other side of the bars, close enough that he could reach and brush his fingertips through her hair, trace the curve of her silk-clad shoulder.

He didn’t move.

They sat in silence a long while, and through it all, try as a might, Samson could not shake his hyperawareness of her presence. She was warmth and light and all that was good according to the world, and here she was, sitting amidst the dregs of Thedosian society. She had no book, no scroll, nothing with which to occupy her hands, and yet he had a strange awareness that she was not idle while she sat. For a while, he did not move or speak, for fear that anything he said or did would ruin this strange moment between them, and she would take her light and warmth and goodness and leave him in the darkness again.

But Samson had never been very good at keeping promises to himself.

“You plan to stay here all night?” He asked, finally breaking the silence. The Inquisitor slid her gaze to him, almost sly.

“Would you like me to?” She asked him casually, as conversational as the weather and yet the weight of her words left his tongue useless. He couldn’t help but look at her then, not as an opponent, but as a woman. She was beautiful…almost too beautiful to mean the words she spoke, and yet her gaze was steady, her smile an echo of the one she’d given him earlier. Samson swallowed against the strange airy anxiousness in his chest.

“Don’t you have an Inquisition to run?” Another question and this time, she laughed.

Was this the sound Cullen fell in love with?

“I daresay I do,” she said, her words trailing the smoke of her laughter, “but I’ve people aplenty to see to the details. It was nice of you to show concern.”

Samson frowned. “You’re mocking me.”

She laughed again. “Hardly. Unless…unless I misread you?”

He hissed, snarled, wanted to scare her off. But it was hard to. She was playing a long game.

“What do you want from me, Inquisitor?” He demanded, “And don’t say to ‘talk’ because I know a bullshit game when I see it.”

The Inquisitor turned to him, slow and deliberate, sitting on her heels. Her fingers, slender and dark and delicate, curled around the bars as she peered at him.

“I did want to talk with you,” she said, “but you asked for silence, which I gave.” She hesitated, and Samson saw for a brief moment, the uncertainty behind the calm, warm exterior.

“Would you believe me if I told you I needed your help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically a scene that never made it into _Post Tenebras Lux_ or _It Will Come Back_ honestly. But I liked it so I kept it on hand.


	12. New Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broken templar learns to move forward without what he thought was the source of his strength.

The headache is continuous. It is a livewire of throbbing pain; a deep bass reverb along the walls of his skull. It drowns out all but the grinding of his teeth.

He regrets the decision that led to this, regrets it with each pulsating beat of his heart, setting the livewire to thrumming again. He lays in stillness, unable to find anything to stymie the agony he’s in.

“Raleigh?” His name is a flutter of wings above the din in his mind, chaos reigning as he grits his teeth. Cool fingertips on his temple, slick with sweat. He breathes deep, mind clawing for purchase in the relief she offers.

Her hands cup his head and he feels the thrumming ebb, a distant echo of pain. He can hear clearly, and when he opens his eyes he searches for her face.

“Are you sure you want to continue this?” She asks him and he frowns, shaming her. She knows better, but her bleeding heart gets the better of her. He reaches up, covers her hands with his own, shuts his eyes, and sighs.

When she leans forward, she bestows his wrinkled brow with a kiss, then the tip of his nose, and finally a gentle, encouraging benediction on his mouth. His smile is more grimace than anything, and he squeezes her hands in a tremulous grip.

For a moment, there is only the blissful weight of the quiet, and the unspoken note of something tender and proud sprouting from the barren earth of his soul, nurtured by a warmth he feels he does not deserve.


	13. The Nowhere Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unspeakable horror is committed, and a distraught mother finds herself on the doorstep of a famous heroic couple...
> 
> Warning for a referenced sexual assault/rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter was written for an audience of one (me), but I have opted to share it because…it’s cathartic for me to find justice in a story where there was none for me. Samson and Hadiza are enlisted by a frazzled woman to come and aid in helping her daughter find her way back home, and seeking justice in the bargain.
> 
> This is dedicated to myself, and to others, who haven’t found the peace of mind needed to heal. I may or may not continue this storyline within this fic. For now, this is where I stopped.

Home was a feeling, he knew. But Samson would never argue the ardent relief he felt when first sighting that weathered oakwood door, feeling the buzz of magic at his nape from the wards brushing against their souls, admitting them until he could push open the door and enter.

Home too was a place that evoked a feeling of belonging.

Never in his life had he owned a home. Home had always been a piss poor bed in the barracks, or whatever dry and unsullied corner of Lowtown he could find to lay his head. It had been a prison cot in a dirty cell, and for a while, the soft, downy cushioning support of his lady’s great bed in a fortified keep in the Frostbacks. Now, it was a humble cottage built by his own hands, imbued with their magic and determination. It was his.

It had been the weight of her in his arms in the night’s depths, when she was still with sleep, her breathing deep and steady, while he lay awake, still disbelieving of his damnable luck.

Home too was a person that evoked a feeling of belonging.

Road weary and aching from their latest adventure, Samson was happy to light the lanterns about the house, and they went through their ritual of unpacking their supplies, stripping from their armor, and running a hot bath in the great, deep tub, one of the few luxurious items Hadiza had commandeered from Skyhold during the Inquisition’s exodus. They reclined within, languorous and dream-like.

Home too was a sense of familiarity, of habit.

They made love in their own bed for the first time in weeks, and as Hadiza moved beneath him, no less intense in her passion than she had been from the first tentative moments of their romance three years prior, Samson was reminded again that this vibrant woman was his wife.

Home too was acceptance of a blessing.

They lay together amidst the rumpled sheets while Samson intertwined their fingers, and their sweat cooled on their skin, bringing them closer. Hadiza kissed him, idly and dreamy, smiling languidly as they basked in the deep, abiding peace their life had finally achieved. Everything from the moment they left Skyhold to the moment the last stone and wood of their home had been laid here in Hercinia, had been good.

“Feels good to be home,” Samson murmured to her, “and dry.”

Hadiza laughed. “Thought we’d never escape all that damned rain. Even my shields couldn’t keep us dry.”

Samson grumbled under his breath, remembering.

“Lost entire stores of food because the damned grain sprouted in the sack.” He groused and Hadiza reached up to scratch at his stubbled chin.

“But we resupplied, yes?” She reasoned, “It all worked out in the end. And we’re home, now. No doubt there’s a mountain of work to be done.”

Samson smiled wide as he moved, quicker than his age belied, pinning her to the bed.

“It can wait until morning, wife.” He told her, grinning wickedly when Hadiza spread her legs a little wider, and felt the pressure of them closing behind his back.

“So you say, husband.” She replied and drew him down to her.

* * *

Birdsong heralded the sunrise, growing sharper as the day grew brighter. Neither Samson nor Hadiza moved, content to lay in bed as sunlight breached their window, filling the room with soft, golden light. The branch of the flowering tree that grew alongside their home hung low with fruit, casting shadows along the floor.

Hadiza opened her eyes as she woke, and breathed deep, feeling the weight of Samson’s arm around her waist. The stump of her left arm moved as she adjusted against him. He moved, tightening his hold, adjusting his head to press himself against her naked back. Hadiza smiled to herself, blinking in the harsh light of sunrise.

Gingerly, she slipped from bed, careful not to rouse the man snoring lightly at her back. Standing naked in the sun flooding their bedroom, Hadiza smiled and went about her ritual. She went first to the bath chamber, splashing water on her face to clear her eyes of sleep, and to wake fully. Scrubbing down her body and bathing quickly, she returned to the bedroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror by her vanity.

There, she looked upon herself.

In the long year after the Inquisition abandoned Skyhold, her hair had grown back. It was full and thick, curling and waving down to mid back once more. But Hadiza cared little for her hair. Instead, she took stock of her naked body. Her face was still youthful in appearance, with bruising beneath her eyes she feared would never leave. There were faint lines around her eyes. Unlike Vivienne, she did not mind them.

The long road had diminished her weight somewhat, and so her bones suddenly emerged beneath her skin, dull and diminished from her trip. But Hadiza could still see the silvery scars upon her arms, legs, and torso, a veritable stigmata of grief and rage that had nearly taken her life a year prior had Samson not intervened. Her hand went to the stump of her left arm, brushing over the faint remnants of the Anchor that clung to the scar tissue, twisted and mangled, as if her flesh had been melted to the bone. It still hurt, deep down, but it was not the physical pain she shied from.

There was a brief moment where she tipped to her left, trying to make her left arm look longer. But it didn’t help. There was no hand to balance it out anymore. She turned to the side, hiding the arm from view. From the side, she felt like herself in the mirror. She flexed the fingers of her right hand, smoothed it along the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip.

And then she turned to face herself again and sighed.

Turning toward the bed, she found Samson watching her. They said nothing for a while, but words were never needed. Not anymore. She went to her wardrobe and began the slow process of dressing. Samson went to the wash basin in the bath chamber and scrubbed down. He dressed himself, and then, watching as Hadiza shrugged into the harness, helped her adjust and tighten the straps. The lyrium lining the false arm flared in response to Hadiza’s pull, and the fingers, clearly mechanical, segmented and false, moved stiffly at her command.

That was how they started their morning when the messenger came to their door.

“Go on,” Samson assured her, “I’ll get breakfast ready.” They left the bedroom together, separating as Samson went to the kitchen and Hadiza went to their front door. When she opened it, she found a woman standing there, looking nervous and slightly unkempt.

“May I help you?” Hadiza ventured, tensing as the woman flinched, and glanced around, over her shoulder. Hadiza looked past the woman toward the beaten path leading to the house. She saw no one in pursuit.

“I…” The woman began, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you this morning but…I was told you could help me.”

Hadiza waited, but the woman did not seem to have much else to say.

“It depends,” Hadiza said with a sigh, “what is the nature of this help you’re seeking?”

The woman began wringing her hands and Hadiza watched, equal parts fascinated and equal parts apprehensive. What was she running from?

“Yes.” The woman agreed, “I…it’s just…I live in a village not far from here. And my husband…”

Hadiza narrowed her eyes. The smell of something soft and buttery came from the kitchen, momentarily distracting her.

“What about your husband?” Hadiza asked and the woman seemed to flinch at the mention.

“He’ll be upset that I came to you but I didn’t know where else to go. It’s my daughter, she…she’s been hurt badly and…”

The woman burst into tears.

Hadiza took a deep breath, stepping outside.

“Hey, don’t…don’t fret,” she said gently, “it’s alright. Why don’t you come inside and we can talk there, alright?”

The woman nodded, her face red, her cheeks wet with tears.

“Thank you.” She sobbed, “I just…I’ve been turned away by everyone. I don’t…I don’t know what else to do.”

Hadiza nodded and led her into the house, shutting the door behind them.

“We’ve got breakfast cooking. You look like you’ve had a time of it,” Hadiza led the woman to the kitchen, “why don’t you sit down and we’ll fix you something?”

The woman did not protest, but she did freeze at the sight of Samson in the kitchen.

Samson turned around from the pot, limning Hadiza in a questioning gaze. Hadiza shook her head.

“Well,” Samson said, “I suppose I’ll be making three instead of two, eh? What’s your name, girl?”

The woman hesitated and Hadiza gave her a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “my husband is not as gruff as he pretends to be.”

The woman hesitated, then looked at Hadiza and said, “Magda.”

Hadiza smiled warmly. “Well, Magda, my name is Hadiza. That’s Samson. Now, why don’t you sit down and tell us what brought you to our doorstep?”

Magda sat with them at their kitchen table, while Samson served the porridge and crusty bread, along with some cider. As food lined their bellies, Magda unloaded her story. They listened as she explained, nervous as a wounded bird, that her husband had become violent since losing his job, and her daughter had become increasingly more distant as a result, finding more reasons to be out of the house when the shouting matches started.

“She started running with this band of ruffians outside the village. Call themselves outlaws,” Magda said contemptuously, “but they’re just thugs. But…” She hesitated again, taking a deep pull of the cider.

“Take your time, Magda,” Hadiza assured her.

“Recently, she went missing for two days. Didn’t come home. We searched everywhere for her. And then…” Magda sat trembling, putting her fist to her mouth as the tears came again.

“She stumbled out of the woods. Her clothes were torn, and she was covered in bruises.” Magda bit back a sob. Hadiza’s brows furrowed.

“She was so afraid,” Magda continued and her eyes were distant, remembering, “she was so afraid and we brought her home. The physician said she had been…that she’d been…”

Hadiza realized then what happened and sat back in her chair. Samson’s face contorted with the burgeoning storm of outrage.

“Maker…” Magda whispered, crying again. “No one in the town wanted to pursue the matter. They said that her attacker had likely long since fled but…Maker’s Blood she hasn’t been eating, and she cries out in her sleep when she does sleep, and I feel so powerless.”

Samson gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled and furious.

“You want us to track down her attacker for you?” He asked quietly and Magda startled out of her grief.

“What? No! I mean…yes…it would help. But…” she turned to Hadiza, “I’ve heard about your talents with healing. Is there anything you can do to help her? I have tried everything but she’s…she’s unresponsive.”

Hadiza was quiet a moment, her breathing even as she thought of everything before her.

“Yes.” She said firmly, “I can treat her injuries, but…the ones you cannot see, the only balm for those is time.” Hadiza did not need to say that Magda’s daughter may never have recovered, and that the possibility of them finding her attacker was slim at best, but Magda heard it all the same and nodded.

“I understand,” she said with a withering sigh, “it is enough that you would help us at all. I am sorry, but I have nothing to offer you.”

“We don’t take money,” Samson said at last, “this one is on us, serah.”

Magda almost cried again and Hadiza placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Now, how about we get you cleaned up, hm?” Hadiza smiled, “You must be weary from the journey…” With that, Magda let Hadiza lead her to the small bedroom across from her own, speaking to her in low tones. Once Magda was settled, Hadiza returned to the kitchen to help Samson clean up after the meal.

“Husband beating on her and the kid,” Samson said contemptuously, “and the daughter gets raped running with a bad crowd.” He shook his head, “I know you like to run things bloodless, princess but…”

“I know,” Hadiza sighed, “Maker…this is a prickly mission, but…I might make an exception for this. I can’t imagine the pain that girl must be in.”

Samson scrubbed the pot vigorously, while Hadiza used ice spells and fire spells to provide a water supply.

“Did you mean it?” He asked her. “When you said you could heal her? We’ve both seen that kind of shit in the Circle. There’s more to it than stitches and balms.”

Hadiza shut her eyes briefly. “I know. But I have to try.”

Samson leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I knew you’d say that.” He said making her smile. “So when do you want to set out?”

“As soon as Magda is rested enough to travel.”


	14. Cold Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of _The Nowhere Road_.

They departed that afternoon. Hadiza mounted her dracolisk, Argo, while Samson mounted his charger, a thick and muscled war horse named Riordan. Magda rode with Samson, clinging to him as they set out after Hadiza reset her wards around the house. For the umpteenth time, they departed Hercinia for the long road, heading west to the village of Brinwolde.

As they came upon it, Hadiza realized that she had never really seen this village on the map. She and Samson exchanged a glance. It was little more than a collection of thatch-roof hovels, cottages, and a paltry square where they held market. It was the kind of village one spit at on the road to a town or city.

“It is not much, I know,” Magda said from her place behind Samson, “but this is home.”

Both Samson and Hadiza understood that and said nothing to gainsay her.

The villagers were busy, making repairs to their homes, sweeping the front of their stores and homes, scolding children. But they all turned to look upon Hadiza and Samson as they rode in, their eyes lingering warily on Hadiza’s mount. Magda directed them to her home, a humble cottage in need of repair.

An angry voice--male--sounded from inside. The door was snatched open and a tall, burly man with a thick, red beard glared at their with ice blue eyes. Seeing Magda on a black charger with a fully-armored Samson, his lip curled.

“The hell is this, Magda?” He demanded, “You straying from me, now? It’s come to that, eh? First knight that passes through town and you run off to ride his pretty horse?” Samson’s face was impassive and he dismounted, helping Magda down to her feet. Hadiza swung out of the saddle gracefully and came to stand between the angry man and Magda.

“You must be her husband, Perth, I assume.” She said and Perth glared at her, his baleful gaze lingering on her false arm.

“You.” He said, sucking his teeth, “I know you. You’re the Inquisitor.”

Hadiza laughed. “No. Not anymore. Just Hadiza will suffice. Your wife came to me for help regarding the matter of your daughter.”

Perth spit contemptuously to his left.

“Ain’t no daughter of mine.” He sneered, “Whore. Just like her mother.”

Samson clenched his fists, stepping forward with an ominous crunch of armor. Perth did pale slightly at the look in the other man’s eyes.

“You want to address your wife with some respect.” Samson said dangerously. It was not a question, nor did it brook room for anything else. Perth considered Samson a moment, considered the sword strapped to his back, the sharp edges of his armor, the look in his eyes.

“Perth,” Magda said, wringing her hands, “they’ve come to see Lisette.”

Perth took a deep breath and then stepped aside, wary as Samson passed him with a sideways glance. Hadiza squeezed Magda’s shoulder reassuringly as she helped her inside.

“She’s in her room,” Magda said softly, “probably sleeping. I’ll go and fetch her.” As Hadiza and Samson waited in the hall, Perth stood, glaring at them both.

“Don’t cause any trouble in my house,” he warned, receiving idle glances from both of them, “you’re not the Inquisition anymore. I can have you killed.”

“I’m sure you can.” Samson said wryly, “But we’re not in the business of killing today. Just investigating a crime.”

Perth’s face went red and he stormed off. In the distance, a door slammed. Hadiza shot Samson a wry glance.

“What?” Samson protested. “We aren’t killing anyone today, right?” Hadiza shook her head with a smile. They listened as Magda’s voice, soft and tremulous spoke, heard a sharp tone of a younger woman, and a low and quiet argument. After several minutes of back and forth, there was a muffled sob and Magda came to poke her head out of the door.

“Can you two…give us a moment?”

Hadiza nodded. “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

Magda retreated back into Lisette’s room. Samson narrowed his eyes momentarily but said nothing. For a while, it was only silence, broken up by the muffled crying from the other room. And then more silence. Finally, the door to Lisette’s room swung open and Magda stood, her arm around a slender waif of a girl, who looked down at the floor, her face obscured by her stringy black hair.

“Lisette,” Magda said softly, “this is the Herald of Andraste…and her husband. They’ve come to help.”

Lisette said nothing. Samson and Hadiza exchanged a glance and he inclined his head slightly. Hadiza turned to the mother and daughter.

“Lisette?” Hadiza’s voice was gentle, and even Samson stirred at the tone, “I’m Hadiza. I’m here to help.”

Lisette looked up and Hadiza felt her throat go tight. The girl’s face was purpled with bruises, her lip swollen from a bad split. As Lisette shivered in her simple dress, Hadiza noted the bruises around her throat as well, and could feel the banked flame of Samson’s anger at her side. Wordlessly, she ushered mother and daughter into the room.

“Samson…” Hadiza said and he nodded, understanding. As the door shut, he turned, leaning against the wall, both guardian and knowing a man was the last person Lisette wanted in her room.

Within, Hadiza sat Lisette and Magda down.

“I won’t ask you what happened,” Hadiza murmured, “because I don’t want you to relive this pain. But…I need to know what you remember of the one who did this to you.”

Lisette seemed in that moment a butterfly in a bell jar, trapped and fragile, wings beating with furious futility against the glass. Hadiza could feel her fear, a cold wind that swept through the room, a singular and sharp thing that knifed its way through the tension. She tensed, feeling a familiar tingle along the bridge of her spine, along her nape.

“I couldn’t see his face,” Lisette murmured, her voice a ghost for all its inflection, “all I saw was…it was dark…and I…”

Hadiza frowned, more from her own anger than anything. The only way they could track the one who did this was through more forbidden—and ultimately invasive—magic. She refused to even consider it. She took a deep breath, exhaling slow and deliberate.

“Are you…” Lisette’s small voice tugged her away from her anger, “Are you really the Herald of Andraste?”

Hadiza smiled. “That is what they called me a long time ago. But I am no one’s herald, Lisette. Just a woman trying to leave this world better than I found it.”

Lisette looked up to meet her eyes, her own wide and dark, her skin the color of sand, ashen from a lack of sunlight, bruised from her assault. Hadiza kept her gaze steady, but her expression was guileless.

“You can’t help me.” Lisette whispered, “No one can help me.”

Hadiza shuddered, steeling her nerves, but her heart was as vulnerable as ever.

“I know it hurts,” Hadiza murmured, “I know what you’re feel—“

“You don’t know anything!” Lisette snapped. “How could you? You’re the Inquisitor. No one can hurt you.”

Hadiza sat in stillness, considering. She did not look away, and she faced Lisette’s anger, bore the hurt as if it were her own.

“I’m not the Inquisitor,” Hadiza amended softly, “not anymore. And even then, it did nothing to protect me.”

Slowly, painfully, Hadiza loosened the straps to her false arm. The lyrium connection was broken, the segmented fingers going limp. She untangled herself, let the arm drop, lifeless and cold to the floor by her booted feet. Lisette stared at the arm for a moment, then at the mottled flesh of the stump of Hadiza’s limb, at the faint green veins glowing along the ruined flesh like an infection that would not abate.

“You…” Lisette whispered and Hadiza sat up a little straighter.

“Someone took this from me,” Hadiza murmured, “against my will, with no regard for my comfort. And I know it is nowhere near as painful as what was taken from you, but I understand _loss_ , Lisette.”

Lisette swallowed hard, her eyes never leaving the ruinous stump of Hadiza’s left arm. Magda placed a gentle hand on her daughter’s arm, reassuring her.

“How do I find my way back?” Lisette asked. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

Hadiza smiled. “There is nothing wrong with that, Lisette. You must know that. You don’t have to know what to do. For now, I only want to ease the physical pain, but only if you want me to.”

“Yes!” Lisette said too quickly and Hadiza nodded.

“Magda, if you would, I’ve a list of things needed to prepare for this process.” Hadiza, reached into her pack, retrieving the parchment and handing it to Lisette’s mother, who read it over with a nod.

“Will you be alright, dearest?” Magda asked. Lisette hesitated and Hadiza watched Magda tense in response. But then Lisette glanced to Hadiza and nodded.

“Yes, mother,” she whispered, “the Inquisitor is here.”

* * *

Over the next several hours, Hadiza treated Lisette’s injuries in private. She made Lisette as comfortable as she could manage, examining the young girl with a deft hand and a perceptiveness born of years of healing expertise. Lisette bore Hadiza’s ministrations with quiet dignity, wincing during the more sensitive parts, to which Hadiza eased back.

“Is this alright?” She would ask, and when Lisette nodded, Hadiza proceeded, slow and easy. At every wince, every hiss, every whimper, Hadiza would ask that question and Lisette would give permission or revoke it.

Hadiza managed to heal the facial injuries, but as she told Magda, the wounds unseen could only be mended by time, and even then…

“How did you find your way back?” Lisette asked when Hadiza finished, washing her hand in a bowl of clean water. She paused, ruminating on the question, trying to understand it herself. It was easy to dispense advice, to give counsel, to look at the quandaries of others and see where they needed to focus their energies. It was quite another matter to turn that perception inward.

“I will let you know when I arrive,” she replied, “I am afraid my journey is still in progress.”

Lisette sat up, wincing from the lingering sting of the unguents Hadiza used on her wounds. Hadiza sat down with a sigh in the chair by her bedside.

“Is he your guiding light?” Lisette asked, “The Red General?” Hadiza glanced at her sharply but then softened. Lisette bit her lip.

“I…I’ve heard the songs. About how you two defied everyone and…ran away together.”

Hadiza laughed. “We did not exactly run anywhere.” She said. “Our story is a strange one…”

Lisette smiled, a weak and trembling thing.

“Mother thinks it’s foolish,” she admitted, “to want someone to love you the way the songs say. I thought…I thought I’d found that…”

Hadiza rubbed the stump of her arm, glancing to where the false limb rested next to her pack on a small table. She would never acclimate to how completely lifeless it looked without her attached to it.

“Love is a spectrum, not an absolute.” Hadiza said, “At least, as I’ve come to know it. It is different for everyone.”

Lisette glanced toward her bedroom door.

“I wouldn’t know, Inquisitor.” She said stonily and Hadiza winced, knowing that the girl’s heart was broken.

“Lisette,” she said, “would you be averse to Samson overseeing your protection while I’m here?”

The girl’s eyes cut to her in surprise.

“Samson? He’d…” She hesitated, “I’d rather it were you, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza nodded, understanding.

“Very well.” She acceded. “I’ll see to your care until you’re well enough to walk.”

Lisette’s eyes widened.

“And then you’ll leave?” She asked, the words tumbling out too fast, rushed and panicked, like a child. Hadiza blinked, startled at the reaction momentarily, but then sighed.

“No,” she said slowly, “not unless you want me to.”

Lisette hesitated but said nothing, looking away, cheeks flush with more color than Hadiza had seen in her since they met. Hadiza smiled to herself, and stood up.

“Where are you going?” Lisette asked quickly and Hadiza turned.

“Samson and I must go into town for supplies,” she lied, “but we’ll return soon. Your mother will be here.” Lisette didn’t look reassured but she said nothing as Hadiza exited the room. She found Samson sitting in the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Well?” He asked and Hadiza shrugged, adjusting one of the straps on her harness. The lyrium veins flared and the fingers wiggled to life, swift and vigorous before she regained control.

“I suppose,” Hadiza said slowly, “it’s time we go a-hunting.”

“About damned time.” Samson groused as they made ready to leave. Magda halted them.

“You’ll come back won’t you?” She asked, and the couple noted how her gaze darted nervously toward the back bedroom. Samson nodded.

“We won’t leave until we’ve finished what you gave us.” He assured her and she hesitated, biting her lip before nodding.

“Thank you,” she whispered and the two left.

Samson rolled his head, working the tension out of his neck.

“Andraste’s arse,” he muttered, “like damned Circle mages in there.” He grinned, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Hadiza said wryly, “but you’re right. Maker…we really stepped in the shit this time.” She shook her head, “The girl looked terrified when I implied we might be leaving when she was well enough to walk.”

They began to make their way through the village.

“Can you blame her?” Samson asked, “I know that look. Ain’t just recent stuff. That house is full of fear. And the husband, what’d you make of him?”

Hadiza glanced at him sidelong. “I am pretty certain that if he did not know who you were, he would have attempted to kill you.”

Samson chuckled. “Guess my bad reputation is finally good for something, eh? But can’t say I don’t wish he’d try. I’d split his ugly skull without even drawing my sword.”

Hadiza rolled her eyes. “Of that I have no doubt. But this is a precarious situation in which we find ourselves, love. We tread carefully, or risk breaking everyone.”

Samson grumbled. “I know, I know. Just would be easier to scare the piss out of the rotten bastard.”

Hadiza laughed. “I did not say we couldn’t scare him. Just not maim or kill him. Although, if he pushes you, who can say how he lost an eye or ear?”

“Princess!” Samson chuckled, “Been hanging around me too long. Never heard you speak like that before.”

Hadiza frowned. “You’re not the only one who wants to see justice violently meted out in this regard.”

For a while, they were silent, and Samson considered the matter settled. Still, it was hard to pick up their investigation with so little leads, and they knew, as soon as they began asking questions, the culprit would be warned. They found nothing of interest or use in the market, and what amounted to the village’s tavern was barely passable in their eyes, but they still sat down and observed regardless. The bread and soup served was bland, and they ate sparingly, washing it down with the piss that passed for ale. With each moment that passed, Hadiza took note of the faces, wondering.

“Looks like those brigands are more than outlaws.” Samson murmured to her. Hadiza sucked her teeth thoughtfully.

“Seems we’ve found our first lead, then,” she murmured back, hiding her words in her tankard. They observed a little more, and hackles rose as two men, accompanied by a woman came to join them.

“Seat’s taken.” Samson said casually, “And we don’t much like having our view blocked.”

The woman ignored him, and sat down anyway.

“We noticed you two riding into town earlier,” the woman remarked casually, “with the miller’s wife. You’ll pardon my curiosity, but what’s a pair of big shots like you doing in a place like this?”

Before Samson could answer, Hadiza interjected.

“The miller’s daughter was badly injured recently,” she said gently, “and so the wife called me here to help.”

The other woman, whose eyes were the color of swamp water, grinned, giving her a feral appearance. Hadiza took note of the badly concealed sheaths on her forearms, and the way the two burly companions she had shifted, blocking their exit. She breathed deep, unearthing the well of her mana…just in case.

“Sad business about that girl,” the other woman said in a tone that did little to hide her gleeful malice, “but good to know she’s in such capable hands. Still, what’s he here for?”

“Protection.” Hadiza said firmly. Samson wasn’t smiling, and when one of the burly men chuckled derisively, his eyes grew hard. There was something in him that quelled their mockery to fearfulness. Something dangerous and leashed tightly to the control of Hadiza, who sat calmly. They saw this clearly, understood that Samson was dangerous, and pressed on regardless.

“A little old for this line of work, aren’t you?” The woman shifted forward and Samson did smile then, a thin, razor’s edge smile, all teeth. He let out a knowing laugh, low and eager.

“And you’re a bit young to be playing these games, lass,” he replied, “you going to attack us or keep faffing about with small talk?”

The woman hesitated, glanced quickly to Hadiza, and spilled into action.

Hadiza struck first.

The temperature in the room plummeted, and the torches on the wall guttered in response, and a hush fell over the crowd as Hadiza’s power washed over the small space, and _winter’s grasp_ froze the woman’s legs to floor, and crept up the backsides of her companions, making them yelp and dance in discomfort, and then pain. The woman, angered, reached forward, and found Samson’s dagger buried in her hand, making her scream. Hadiza held the spell, her breath misting in the cold room, and patrons spilling out of the tavern in fear.

“You’ll pay for this!” The woman screamed as the couple stood up, “Etienne will have both your heads roasting on a spit by nightfall!”

Samson casually reached forward, gripping the hilt of his dagger, and snatching it free, ignoring her cry of pain as she fell back, clutching her injured and bleeding hand. Hadiza broke the spell, but their enemies were too numb from cold to attack, clumsily reaching for their swords and finding them dropped and mishandled in nerveless, frost-bitten fingers.

“Tell this _Etienne_ ,” Hadiza said calmly, “that we will meet whatever force he dares to challenge us with. Tell him to come for our heads, if he has the _balls_ to do so himself.” She made a fist, bathed in the arcane flame of her raw power. “Get some elfroot salve for that hand, and count yourself lucky that you can walk away from this.”

They left the tavern, and Hadiza watched them go, smiling grimly, listening to them stumble and curse, disoriented from the twisting of the Veil.

“That didn’t take long at all, did it?” Samson laughed, “I was sure we were going to have to go in the woods and drag the bastards out ourselves.”

Hadiza shook her hand out, wiggling her fingers.

“I suspected that Magada’s band of ruffians was more than some ragtag bunch of bandits,” she said, “but this is new. We need to question Lisette, much as I’m loathe to do it. But she’s the only one who has any knowledge we may need.”

Samson nodded. “And I’ll see to it that Etienne doesn’t make this village his battleground, eh?”

“Be careful.” Hadiza warned, “I boasted earlier, but I don’t want to find out Etienne’s got an army at his back. Not sure I feel like wasting an army.”

Samson grinned, and took her hand, helping her work out the tension in her fingers.

“That’s what you brought me here for, princess.” He told her, “Protection, remember?”

Hadiza seemed ready to retort, but smiled helplessly instead.

“Go get some answers,” he told her, “I’ll scout ahead. Something tells me we’re going to be staying here a while.”


	15. Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go home Hadiza, you're drunk.

The woman sprawled across his lap is many things to many people. She is the Inquisitor to most, Hadiza to her friends, princess to him.

But right now she is very drunk.

Her eyes are closed, and a soft smile bows her mouth. Her hair, thick, curling and glossy, spills over his knees, shrouding her in a cloud of ink-dark tendrils. Her dress is half undone, the stays unlaced to midback. Neither one of them seem inclined to finish the process. Her shoes, a pair of heels he swears are spun from glass, lay on the floor, forgotten baubles. Her feet hurt, he knows, but she seems content to lay across his lap, trying hard to still the world spinning in her vision.

Hadiza is not one to imbibe strong drink often.

“Why…” she slurs lazily, “Why’d you let me do that?” Samson smirks, runs his fingers through her hair and massages her scalp. She forgets the question, and hums happily.

“I told you not to, princess, memory serve,” he reminds her, “but you insisted that you could hold your drink. And now here we are.”

Hadiza groans in exasperation.

“When does the spinning…when does it stop?”

Samson laughs. “When you go to sleep, princess.”

“I can’t…” She searches for the words, her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. “I can’t sleep if the world is spinning like this.”

He suppresses more laughter, continues massaging her scalp.

“Do you need the chamber pot?”

Hadiza groans again.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Do I?”

Samson turns her over, sits her up so he can help her out of her gown.

“How’s your stomach?” He asks as he peels her out of the expensive mess of crushed velvet and stiff lace. Hadiza laughs, a sound evocative of hills, tumbling one over the other.

“It’s still here, if that’s what you mean.” She tells him and Samson does not dignify her with a response. He carries her to bed, her arms lazily looped around his neck.

“You are such a good lover,” Hadiza tells him, “where did you learn this?”

Samson smiles at her, settling her into bed. She rolls around happily, grasping her pillows.

“You’re a lady, Hadiza,” he tells her, “can’t treat you as anything less. Wouldn’t be right.”

Hadiza smiles at him. “Okay,” she agrees, and then her expression melts into one of sickness. Samson knows, and fetches the chamber pot. He holds her hair back as she crawls across the bed quickly, leaning over to empty the contents of her stomach into it.

She vomits four times, and then lays in exhausted stillness.

“Maker…” she breathes, anguished, “the spinning…Samson please make it stop…”

Samson shakes his head.

“No can do, princess. You’ve got to hold on until it slows down.” He wants to laugh that he’s indulging her like this, but he knows the feeling. It’s been some time since he was _that_ dismantled. But one never forgets the feeling.

Later, she sleeps, sprawled haphazardly across the bed, her mouth hanging open, snoring lightly. A thin trail of drool pools at the corner of her mouth onto the pillow, but she sleeps. Samson sits in the chair near her, mindful of the chamber pot which smells sour with vomit. He counts it as a victory that she didn’t miss, at least.


	16. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sun. Rain. Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beyoncé's _Lemonade_ got me feeling sentimental.

Samson kisses Hadiza like a man who has not been offered a drink in ages. Over time, as he whets his appetite, hones his desire on the wicked edges of her smile, he kisses her for the sheer joy of tasting her on his tongue. He licks at her lush lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. She is plenty and he is no longer as thirsty as he was in that dimly-lit scrying chamber.

Hadiza is sunlight poured into the flesh, blood, and bone of a woman. He basks under the light of her love, nurturing whatever tenderness they have planted in his marrow, springing into violent bloom something in him he thought himself incapable of.

Her laughter is spring rain on the soil of his soul, and he laughs with her, because he can. She pulls with a wordless gesture, smiles he can give no one else, and she presses the soft velvet of her cheek against his stubble, and hums. He laughs despite himself, turning to bite her cheek tenderly, playfully. She laughs again, and his soul feels cleaner than it has in a long time.

Her moans are seismic tremors in the cage of his bones, boiling his blood with desire, and he lets her shake him apart, even as he holds her–the epicenter–close to his chest, burying himself in her. He wants to come apart in her arms, but she wraps herself around him, holds him together. _Stay, stay, stay_. He breathes deep and obeys. He won’t leave. He can’t leave. He’s home, now.

Her sighs are a breath from heaven, filling the silence with reminders of this impossible peace they’ve achieved. He steals glances at her, cocooned as she is in that swinging chair of hers, a book in her lap, one bare foot on the floor, rocking the chair to and fro. She glances up once, lips quirking into a smile as she meets his gaze, making a hot flush creep along the back of his neck to his ears. Her smile becomes a grin and he looks away, cheeks burning, returning to his quiet task as she returns to her book.

Sometimes, the sun is too much.


	17. Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night in camp.

Thedas has two moons that hang like the last pearls on a string in the lonely night sky. It is Lethe-dark, the stars dim in comparison to the brightness the moons give off. The air is still and cold in the valley, unlike in the Frostbacks, where the wind howls continuously, screaming at the spinal column of mountains to _move_.

Samson warms his hands by their meager fire, recalling hot, wet Kirkwall summers when the air was fat and bloated with the stink of unwashed bodies, alive and dead. He remembers squatting in a shady corner, trying hard to contain the searing coil of withdrawal in his bowels, his hands caked with filth, his mouth dry with thirst, even as the air teased moisture within it, brined and foul…but wet. Blessedly wet.

He blinks like a sleepwalker roused from a waking dream, and the world around him comes into sharp focus. Beneath the reddish glow of the firelight, her face swims into view, fast asleep, but there is a tense stillness to her features, an almost-frown that denotes she hovers at the edge of wakefulness. He knows with a touch he can rouse her to readiness. Her watch is not for another hour, and so he sits in stillness, feeding the fire with dry twigs, which are quickly devoured, their gnarled bones popping and cracking from the heat, blackening to ash.

He brings his hands to his face and breathes onto them, his breath fogging the air in front of him. He is not a creature of the cold, like Rutherford, and while he has known cold nights, he has never known _frigid_ nights. Ferelden’s winters are harsh and pitiless, the ground hard-packed and chilled, the earth beneath him dead and asleep, coiling in on itself until the spring thaw.

When the hour passes, he rouses her for her watch. She sighs, crawling out of her bedroll, her arms going around herself against the sudden onset of cold. He helps her into her armor, and she shivers, eager to thrust her feet into her boots, frozen fingers fumbling with buckles and straps. The effort rouses her fully and she takes up the watch, relieving him. As she beds down for the night, his eyes go to the sky, the Frostbacks reaching up in an attempt to pierce it…or perhaps pluck the two pearls of the moons from it. Beneath the gentle crackling of the campfire, he can hear her teeth chattering, hear her fumbling for her wineskin, and he shuts his eyes, nose burning from the cold, and soon he is asleep. It is dark and dreamless, like slipping underwater.

He thinks he knows a little of what death tastes like in that moment, and he hopes she forgives him if he clings to this dreamless darkness a little while.


	18. Tears From Heaven

The sky’s throat splits in a roar, heralding the violence of a thunderstorm. Hadiza busies herself, shuttering the windows, reinforcing her barriers, testing the elasticity of her wards around their home. Samson aids her, pointing out magical deadzones, which she fills with raw mana, shapes it into a weave to blend with the wards she already has in place.

A flash of lightning illuminates the surrounding forest and the winding dirt path enough to inform her of the onslaught. The sky exhales sharply, shuddering with the threat of rain, heaving breaths whipping the trees and sending them to sway and groan in protest.

“Winter’s going to be harsh this year,” Samson says as they retreat to their bedroom. Hadiza nods, sighing as they settle into bed.

“Remind me again why we chose to build a house surrounded by precarious trees?” She asks him and Samson smiles, hand going to her hip.

“Oh,” he begins thoughtfully, “something about you wanting to be somewhere secluded and safe. Not wanting to hurt anyone, but near enough to the city to survive.”

Hadiza sucks her teeth in annoyance.

“I thought you said lyrium takes your memory.” She grouses, “You remember everything I ever said?”

Samson is quiet a moment. Her back is to him, and she cannot see his expression, as the storm picks up around their house, pressing insistently against her wards. He can feel the cold, prickly sensation at the base of his skull from the magic’s activation.

“Yes.” He says quietly, and Hadiza turns to face him. She searches his face for a trace of that roguish humor, but Samson is serious.

“Really?” She asks, unsure. Samson smiles, then. The curl along the corner of his mouth is slow and despondent.

“You’re a vivid person,” he tells her, “and while I may not remember all the bits of you chattering on about magic and dreams…I remember a lot of things you’ve said to me.”

Hadiza blinks, nonplussed. “Oh.”

Samson flicks her hip. “Don’t trouble yourself over it, princess. Lyrium will burn my brain out eventually.”

“Raleigh, don’t jest.”

“Not a jest.”

Hadiza turns away from him again, slightly angry. They fight about this once a day, now. Samson wants to tell her not to worry, knows that her anger at his cavalier view on his condition is born from sadness, worry, and frustration. Her research consumes her arcane laboratory in the other room, and yet has turned up nothing that will reverse the damage done. She is angry with herself as much as she is with the circumstances.

The rain roars outside of their home, a dull roar. Hadiza refuses to face him, and hot tears wet her pillow.

“Princess.” Samson’s voice is soft, but the gravel in it makes her shiver in her skin. He leans in, kisses her bare shoulder. “Come on, don’t go to bed upset.”

“I’m _not_ upset!” Comes the small, tear-filled voice. Samson sighs, the breath raising gooseflesh on her skin.

“What can I do to make this up to you?” He asks and Hadiza’s body tenses, curls in on itself slightly. She’s holding back a sob and Samson doesn’t know why. He doesn’t believe his joking has crossed a line, and yet…

The sky’s throat splits again, a crackling cry of thunder rolls over the land, makes the glass of their windows shiver in their frames.

Samson sighs again, defeated, and instead settles his arms around her, pressing himself against her back. His breath stirs at her nape, and he presses a soft kiss to the tender expanse of flesh. He murmurs his affection as an act of contrition, reminds her that he’s still here.

Hadiza shudders in his arms, mourning him before he’s gone.


	19. Hannun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is sacred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to talk about Samson's hands, apparently.

She likes his hands, he learns.

She’ll take his hands in hers, lace their fingers, bring his rough knuckles to her soft lips and kiss each one. He watches her, fixated on the suffused compassion on her face. He remembers a time when the cracks of his hands were caked with grime, his nails blackened and broken from crawling, seeking the ephemeral sanctuary of somewhere shady and dry. He remembers when his hands smelled of foul things, and no amount of dipping them in the coastal waters would ever get them clean. He remembers cupping his hands in the shape of a bowl, eager for the cold metallic kiss of coin, trembling from the weight of his suffering when the day was done and those hands came up empty.

But Hadiza Trevelyan loves his hands. Loves the way his fingers curl, crooked and spotted with age, calloused and cracked from swordplay, and she spreads them, pressing a kiss to his palm. She chases his lifeline to his wrist, lingering on his pulse, kisses the knobby joints, laughs when he tugs her forward into his arms.

His hands are cleaner, in a manner of speaking, and he fills them with sweet things. Food, drink, a sturdy blade, a woman whose laughter floods his heart with light.

His hands are sturdier, the tremor of uncertainty replaced by a steady and quiet confidence. They span the satin-soft length of her back, a stark contrast of pale skin against the soft, black gold of her own. His fingers sink into the thick, dark forest of her hair, massaging her scalp. She responds by dipping her head, and he catches her mouth with his, like a snowflake on his tongue. The shiver of her body in response fills his hands with something that cannot be touched by anyone else.

_This is sacred._

She loves his hands as they span the breadth of her ribs, his palm against the hammering and trapped thing that is her heartbeat. She loves when he cups the lush weight of her breasts, when his rough thumbs circle the swollen, dark buds of her nipples, and his grip tightens as she sucks in a deep breath.

She likes the tips of his fingers, passing with a feather’s gravity along the soles of her feet, making her toes wiggle, freeing the peals of laughter she traps in the cage of her chest like birds. She likes the firm grip he takes of his sword, watching him go through movements and forms ingrained into muscle and bone since boyhood. She watches him handle his sword as an extension of himself, and he can’t help the beam of pride in him as her appraising glance sweeps along the contours of his shoulders, along the hardened muscle of his back, following the silver arc of his blade to completion.

When he’s done, he comes to her, sinks into the softness of her smile, cups her face in those hands, rough and promising, pressing a kiss to her lips.

_I love you_ , his hands say, when he touches her.

_I love myself_. As he stares at his reflection, fingertips dragging along his face, a pair of dark, slender hands smoothing up his chest, lingering over his heart.


	20. The Long Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. Samson and Hadiza spend a long night together while visiting her family in Rivain.

The sky veils its eyes. The moons turn their faces away in a rare moment of synchronization. The stars blink slowly.

The night is completely dark and Thedas’ northern surface is subsumed in shadow. From the south, a faint, hazy glow of sickly green emanates from what the seers have taken to calling the Dreamscar.

The Rivaini call this _dogon duhu_  -- the long dark. It has not been so since before the time of the qunari migration.

Hadiza has been fostering with her mother’s family, and Samson sees her rarely, which no longer troubles him. It is always thus when she is entrenched in the strange and wild magic of her mother’s people. She returns after days of being sequestered amongst the clan’s most powerful mages, deepening the well of her mana, and he can feel it when she enters the room. Seeing her makes the hairs on his arm stand up, holding her sends a thrill of terror and anticipation through him.

Her power is growing.

In the long dark, the mages abstain from casting, and are confined to living as their non-magical brethren. In this, they learn discipline of their own magic, and to remember not to rely entirely upon it. Hadiza struggles in the first few hours, and Samson smiles, reminding her, much to her annoyance.

They must abstain from sex as well, as that excites the deep well of their mana, encouraging them to cast as they expel sexual energy.

It is Hadiza’s turn to laugh as Samson grouses about the practice.

And so, they spend the long dark in companionable silence. The urge to touch her is strong. Knowing that they cannot have one another only heightens the desire and Samson feels again a young man, intoxicated on his own virility and full of lusty vigor. Hadiza is coiled tight with tension, squeezing her thighs together. It was so easy for them, when there was no practice to abstain. When they wanted, they took and gave as they pleased. Samson did not ever think he would miss the warm pressure of her thighs around his waist.

So they go outside and walk the grounds, hand in hand, like young lovers who are suddenly without a chaperone. Samson wants to kiss her in the dark, sheltered by the fragrant canopy of wisteria over the arched breezeways of the estate. He wants to hear her panting in his ear as he takes her against the cool marble in an alcove of jasmine, watching her fingers grip the lattice where the roses grow.

Hadiza, for her part, can feel the heat of him next to her, and she leans against him affectionately, trying to stymie her own desire. Soon, the sun will rise, banishing the long dark, and bringing with it a renewed sense of purpose.

And then Hadiza can wrap herself around her husband and howl at the sky if it pleases her.

Sensing her thoughts, Samson presses a lingering kiss to her temple.

“I never thought purposely denying ourselves would get me going, princess,” he tells her, “but here we are. Maker, I cannot wait for dawn.”

_Then don’t_. Hadiza thinks to herself, shameful and tangled up in her own indolent yawn of an appetite. _Take me right here in the dark_.

But Samson respects the traditions of her family. He will kiss her gently, squeeze her hand, wrap her in his arms, but he will not cross the boundary. Hadiza wants him to cross that line, wants him to cross it as if it is dust to be danced away beneath his feet on a whim. She wants him to tear her apart, to split her open and take his pleasure along the livewire of her own. She wants the mark of his teeth on her breasts and throat, his fingerprints brands into the flesh of her hips, the tight stretch of his cock inside of her.

Maker, he’s right. Purposely denying themselves only heightens desire.

But the _dogon duhu_ takes its name not only for the heavy darkness that blankets the land, but its length. For hours it feels as if the sun may never come. The braziers are lit sparsely, providing just enough light for one to see where they are going but no more. This is a time of contemplation for Rivain’s mages, but Hadiza feels she has contemplated enough. She wants her husband.

Samson plucks the heavy blossom of a peony from the garden, handing it to Hadiza. She shuts her eyes in private bliss as its fragrance wafts around her, burying her nose in the velvety petals. With his arm around her, they continue to walk.

After, they return to the main house, retreating to their shared bedroom. Scrolls are piled on the tables, the result of Hadiza’s countless hours of cataloguing the practices and magics of her kin that before had been but an impenetrable and frightening mystery to one nursed in the bosom of the Chantry.

As dawn approaches, Samson feels his desire level into something manageable, and he helps Hadiza out of her harness, helps her undress, resisting the urge to kiss the skin as he always does. The first nascent rays of sunrise seem brighter after such a deep, consuming darkness has settled over the land. Samson greets the dawn with his wife, whose fingers lace with his, a peony blushing and blooming in her thick hair.

Relieved, they retreat to bed. Samson takes her first, delighting in her shout of laughter as he tosses her legs over his shoulders, leaning in to lap at the slick opening of her cunt. Her laughter dissolves, becomes a quiet moan, and without prompting she spreads her legs further encouraging him by lifting her hips. Samson smirks, sucking the swollen, throbbing bud of her clit between his lips, the rough expanse of his tongue snaking along the sensitive surface.

Her moans get louder, and she tosses her arm over her eyes, unable to focus on anything but the point where his mouth meets her flesh.

Samson feels the same wild desire of the long dark prick him again and he laps at her in earnest, listening with half an ear to her cries in Rivaini, holding her hips in a firm grip to keep her from bucking against his mouth. Her thighs begin to quiver, and he can feel her heels drumming against his back. She becomes wet heat against his mouth as she comes, her back arching, hips straining, her cries strangled.

The sunlight pours through the curtains, soft and golden, and as she lays trembling in the aftermath, an epicenter of satisfaction, Samson smiles, licking his lips. Hadiza watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, focused on the path his tongue takes, on the swollen fullness of his mouth, the crookedness of his teeth, giving him a shark-toothed smile.

“Come here.” She tells him and he obeys, his skin cool against hers, save for his cock, which is hot, engorged with blood, flushed dark. He braces himself on his arms as she shifts beneath him, the tip of his cock brushing the swollen lips of her sex, making her gasp.

“Now?” He asks, swamp water eyes glittering in the dawn and Hadiza sighs out her assent, lifting her legs as he surges forward, slipping into her easily.

For a moment, they are both still, their breathing deep and controlled. It is always so jarring to be this close, this connected, blending their heat, joining their flesh.

“You feel like a dream, princess,” he tells her, lowering himself onto his elbows so he can kiss her. Hadiza cups his face in her hand, kissing him back.

“And you look eager,” she tells him, laughing when he nips her cheek with his teeth, “...and handsome as always.”

His hips pull back, making her hiss.

“Oh you don’t mean a word of it, princess,” he tells her in a husky whisper, delighting in her groan as he pushes forward again, “but you make this old man happy, know that.”

Her thighs squeeze him and he feels a fresh wash of slick along his cock.

“Typical,” he snorts, moving at a slow but steady pace, “compliments get you wet.”

“Just you.” Hadiza responds on the heels of a groan, lifting her hips to meet his, to take him as deep as she can. Samson laughs, and she shivers from the vibrations in her bones.

“Careful, princess...” He whispers in her ear, teasing her with shallow thrusts, “...wouldn’t want to ruin these nice sheets.”

Hadiza clings to him, making a sound of frustration. Samson laughs rudely into her ear, lets her hear the sound of his cock moving in and out of her, lets her delight in the slick, erotic feel of him inside of her, parting her again and again. Samson lets himself sink into the rhythm of her breathing, the crest and trough of her moans, the feel of being enveloped by her.

This is perhaps the most blissful sunrise he has ever witnessed.

When she comes, it is a quiet, intense thing. A tremor that shakes the ridges of her spine from tip to nape, and she holds him closer, tighter, desperately trying to keep herself from coming apart.

“Let go.” He murmurs, planting kisses along the angles of her cheek, the tender shell of her ear. “I’ve got you.”

Hadiza’s head falls back against the pillows and he feels her let go, feels her open up, and he shuts his eyes because Maker he’s going to be right behind her. And so he holds on for her sake, barely. And then he loses the battle.

They lay there in the aftermath, their spirits brighter, feeling as if the very skin and bone they inhabit is too little to contain them. They watch as Rivain is bathed in daylight through their window, banishing the long darkness.

“We should do that more often.” Hadiza murmurs lazily. Samson chuckles derisively, rolling them over to ease his tired back.

“Mmm...” His hands smooth along her sweat-slick back, and when he squeezes the softness of her rear, she bites her lip, “If we do that anymore I don’t think we’ll have to worry about children.”

Hadiza laughs. “You think this kind of thing will conceive a child?”

Samson delivers a light slap to her rear.

“As much as you want me inside you, there’s bound to be something that comes of this, princess.” He laughs.

“Yes.” Hadiza agrees. “ _Me_. I come of this. And so do you, love.”

His laughter echoes down the hall, mingling with her own. The silliness of her declaration somehow stirs him again.

“Well,” he tells her, squeezing her hips as she sits up to look down at him. “I’ll believe you when I’ve got proof.”

“You’re incorrigible.” She remarks. Samson laughs.

“Come on, princess, one more...give an old man some peace.” Hadiza purses her lips in mock annoyance.

“Only if you promise to-- _oh_! Raleigh!” She cries, swatting his hand away from the juncture between her thighs. Samson is smirking up at her, wicked as can be, and Hadiza sighs.

“One more, and then breakfast.” She says. Samson’s hand is back between her legs again, and her hips move of their own accord. She promises one, but Samson, damn him, teases out three, leaving her shuddering in his arms later. To make up for his appetite, he slakes hers, bringing her breakfast to celebrate the end of the long dark.


	21. The Knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson knows her better than anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place early in their relationship, when everything was new, but not quite.

He knows her, better than anyone in the Inquisition. He knows her thoughts because he has touched them in the night’s depths, lain awake with her while she confessed her sins to him instead of a Chantry Mother. Who better to understand the weight of guilt on her soul than one who bore the blood of countless on his hands.

She tells him about the first time she took a life in cold blood, asks him what he felt when he first baptized his sword in blood. Samson understands, a little, of what she wants. She wants to know it will be easier.

But he’s wrong.

She doesn’t want it to get easier, she says to him. She wants it to be harder. Killing should not be easy. And so Samson asks, “What of your sister? The one who was trained for it?”

She hesitates, unsure, and Samson is reminded how naive she is of how the real world works. Death is necessary, and sometimes dealt by mortal hands.

“She was trained for it because she had no say,” Hadiza protests, “and now it is all she knows how to do.”

Samson shrugs. “Even so. It’s easy for her and she sleeps well at night. Does that make her evil?”

“No!” Hadiza says, and then amends, “I mean…I don’t know. She seems nice.”

Samson raises a brow. “You’ll forgive me if I disagree, princess,” he says wryly. Hadiza purses her lips in that way that makes him smile.

“I just…” she rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling, “It shouldn’t be so easy to take someone’s life.”

Samson props himself up on his elbow, watching her.

“How many of my men did you kill, Hadiza?” He asks her seriously, “To get to me. How many?”

Hadiza is still and quiet as the vast darkness between the stars. She is afraid to answer because she does not know. Samson frowns.

“You killed them indiscriminately because to you they were no longer people.” He tells her, reading the thoughts she won’t give voice to. “But they were my men. Bad decisions or no, they were men and women who had families, who made a choice to follow me. And you cut through them like a hot knife through butter.”

Hadiza is quiet, burning with shame.

“That was different.”

“Horse shit.” Samson says. “You kill with magic and I with a sword. Killing is killing, Hadiza. And even though you won’t admit it, it got easier the longer you did it. Eventually, you probably even started enjoying it a little.”

Shame hollows out her chest and she shrinks before his gaze, but the truth is that he is right. Killing red templars became less of a tragedy and more of a game to her. Evil intentions or no, Samson is right. She knows he is right, and suddenly she sees blood on her hands. It is a deeper red than the lyrium her lover consumed. It is viscous and sticky and damning and she knows she will never be able to wash her hands enough.

“So,” she says quietly, “I’m a ruthless killer too.”

Samson shakes his head. “No, princess. A killer, yes, but never ruthless. That’s what makes you different. That’s what will always make you different.”

Hadiza sighs, but the shame will not abate.

“I don’t like killing.” She tells him, trying to convince herself, “I’m a healer…I don’t…I don’t like to end lives.”

Samson smiles. “Well that much I know, princess. It would explain why I’m here in your bed  and not swinging from the gallows, wouldn’t it?”

She hits him with a pillow, eliciting laughter.

“It’s not funny.” She says sullenly, “I never intended for you to end up here.”

Samson’s expression turns grave, and for a moment the question hovers on the tip of his tongue, restrained by cowardice. He wants to ask her why he wound up here, regardless of whatever came before. He wants to ask her why she asked him to stay. A woman like her could have anyone, a dozen men in the Inquisition far more worthy of her time and attention, but something moves her to him. She catches him watching again as he looks away quickly.

“You see me.” She says, answering the unspoken question. Samson blinks.

“What?” He asks. Hadiza rolls onto her side to look at him.

“You’re here, with me, because you see me, Samson. Everyone else sees the Inquisitor. Or a very lucky Circle Mage, or a naive girl. But you see me.”

Samson hesitates, a flush creeping to his ears.

“And who are you?” He asks. Hadiza smiles.

“What do you see?” She asks back. Samson looks at her, then, studies her face in the silvery light of the moon and stars. She is at ease here, when it’s just the two of them. Her mouth is softer, her eyes too. There is laughter bubbling in her chest at any given moment. She’s like a lazy river, flowing toward the sea. _I’ll get there when I get there_ , her spirit says to him. When he touches her, she beams, and sunlight pours through the cracks in her bones. When he fucks her, she shirks decorum, civility, and training. She moves how he wants, is as loud as she’s ever been, and he feels as if he’s holding too much power in his arms when she comes. Hadiza is many things behind the mask of Inquisitor, but here in this moment she is merely a woman.

And she cares what he thinks of her.

“I see you,” he says at last, laughing to himself, “Maker, you’re really something, princess.”

Hadiza’s smile is at once pleased and proud.

He knows her better than anyone.


	22. Paradigms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne and Lady Fayé have a discussion about the paradigms of arcane study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend requested some Vivienne perspective during the events of _Maledictus_. Takes place during one pivotal chapter.

Djeneba was a woman who commanded the respect of every member of her House from her husband to the lowliest kitchenmaid fetching water in the mornings from the well on the grounds. She carried herself with the erect and consummate poise of an empress, and spoke with a voice that was at once resonant and soothing. Her expressions were tailored to the situations she found herself in, be it overseeing disputes between others, or looking over reports regarding the trade and commerce that filled House Fayé’s coffers. She never gave more than was necessary, never took more than those who served her could give.

Vivienne watched her and thought she would have flourished in Orlais if not for the very abomination she made of herself.

The sun roved the sky, which was blown clear of clouds. The moons were barely visible in the harsh light, and Vivienne watched as Djeneba and a group of young girls all clad in white robes ventured into the “teaching garden”, a place where spring was perpetually in bloom, with a small fountain in the center, and giant stone slabs shaped into lotus blossoms arrayed in what was obviously a classroom setting. The girls took their places on the stones, sitting cross legged. Every one of them had the same hairstyle: tendrils of their hair wrapped tightly in shining black thread, and bent into elegant shapes evocative of nature.

Vivienne followed closely, deciding to watch as Djeneba began the lesson.

“The Dreamscape,” Djeneba began, “erstwhile known as the Fade to the larger world. It is a realm of endless possibilities, and like any other place, fraught with danger.”

Her students listened with rapt attention, eager. They were new to their powers, and Vivienne could see none of the raw fear in them that she was so used to seeing when new mages were brought to the Circle. Here in Rivain, magic was the order of the day, and the Rivaini conquered it by first shedding their fear of it.

And yet…

“Each of us draws our power from the Dreamscape,” Djeneba continued, walking at a slow pace to ensure each student got the full of her attention and lesson. “Some of you may come to know it more intimately than others. The Tevinter call those the _somniari_ , but today we will learn how to draw only what we need from the Dreamscape. Take too much, and you risk upsetting the delicate balance. Take too little, and your powers will be weak and paltry.”

She turned one hand over delicately, palm up forming a perfect sphere of ice. It crystallized audibly, and her students watched. Then, it melted as a flame germinated within its center, consumed the sphere of ice in a sphere of flame. Slowly, Djeneba closed her fist around it, extinguishing it without flinching. Vivienne narrowed her eyes.

“Now, the first lesson we will learn is tapping the well of your magic. Each of you has a well of mana within you. The more you train, the deeper your well becomes, and the less you need to rely on lyrium potions. Now, who can tell me the first exercise of shaping magic?”

A young girl, whose skin gleamed like black gold in the light, her smile bright and eager, raised her hand. Vivienne gazed at her hair, coiled into the shape of a bird taking wing, and smiled.

“Yes, Mariam,” Djeneba said, “do share.”

The girl stood up on her lotus stone seat and all eyes of the class turned to her.

“To tap our well of mana, we must first clear our minds and visualize it. This allows us to focus only on the…the…” She stuck her tongue out, looking up in a gesture of deep thought, “The image of the well.”

Djeneba smiled indulgently.

“Yes! Very good. Now, everyone, I need you to steady your breathing. Deep breath in, good, good, and exhale. Excellent. And again in, and exhale. Not so loud, Munachi, just in through the nose and out through the mouth. Good, good.”

Djeneba caught Vivienne’s eye and smiled. Vivienne did not smile back.

“Alright, now that your breathing is even–no one fall asleep!–visualize your mana. The well. It can be simple or extravagant, but try to find the place where the magic comes from. This is what we call our anchor. When you visualize, it allows you to cleanly shape magic. As your skills increase, this will become second nature.”

She waited a moment longer.

“Now, uncover the well slowly and take a handful of your mana in your mind’s eye.”

Suddenly, there was light. One child gasped, eyes wide, as she held shapeless green light in her hands.

“Yaya!” She cried, “Yaya, look!” Another girl, clearly her sister, held a similar shapeless mass of green.

“Oh spirits! Is this…?” One girl was delighted and the class devolved into excited but hushed chattering. Djeneba was smiling like a proud mother.

“Alright, alright. Settle down. This is raw magic. It is shapeless, without form, and it comes directly from the Dreamscape.”

Her students were awestruck.

“The reason I warn you to take only what you need is because the Dreamscape can be dangerous for young mages like yourself. There are spirits in the Dreamscape, some benevolent, and some malevolent. What you take from their world alerts them to your existence, and sometimes they want you to bring them over.”

“But, Auntie,” a young girl asked, “is that not what the seers do all the time?”

Djeneba smiled. “Yes, Munachi, it is. But what the seers do is of a different nature. We will learn about that another time. For now, look upon your Dreamscape magic. It is yours to shape, but never forget where it comes from. Respect this gift, children.”

Vivienne shifted, rubbing her thumb on the smooth, burnished gold of her staff.

“Alright,” Djeneba said, “now we must shape it. Let us try something safe. I want you to visualize ice, and then shape the magic to form it.”

She waited, smiling to herself at the furrowed brows of concentration, the little grunts of effort as the young mages attempted to shape the raw magic into the ice they thought they visualized. Vivienne’s mouth twitched, remembering a time when she was so young and new to her power.

“Auntie, like this?” Mariam asked eagerly. In her hands was a lump of ice. She had tried to make it spherical, but it was shaped more like a puddle splash than anything. Djeneba smiled.

“Good. Just like that. Hold onto that.” She checked the other students. Not all were successful in their first attempt, and some even lost the raw magic as it dissipated harmlessly from their hands, their concentration lost. Some created water but not ice, and frowned down at their soaked laps in dismay. Djeneba offered naught but words of encouragement to each, bidding them to try again. Vivienne watched as she walked her students through the exercise and within half an hour, little lumps of ice began to appear in small, delicate hands, accompanied by excited and victorious chatter.

And then the lesson was concluded.

As the children dispersed, eager to share what they learned when they returned to their families in the town proper, Djeneba came to stand next to Vivienne.

“They would flourish much faster and more effectively in a proper Circle,” Vivienne said calmly, “it should not have taken so long for them to shape their magic.”

Djeneba sighed. “And if they proved to be slower to learn than their peers in a Circle, what then, Madame de Fer? The templars brand their foreheads?”

Vivienne frowned. “Not every Circle conducted itself with the barbarism of Kirkwall.”

“And yet Dairsmuid’s Circle is a smoking ruin surrounded by protection spells, and your Circle flourishes.” Djenebe retorted but there was no malice in her, only a calmness that belied the grief of one who had lost too much already.

“Dairsmuid’s annulment was tragic, Lady Fayé, but your mages were becoming abominations. Consorting with demons and spirits and allowing themselves to be possessed, endangering everyone around them…” Vivienne shook her head. “Even now, you see the result of such things in the Inquisitor.”

Djeneba remained calm.

“Am I to blame for her lack of training in the art? She is not a seer, Madame, and for you to use her as the measuring stick against which all of Rivain must adhere to is unfair. Hadiza is as yet young and untapped in her full potential. For her to be ridden by a malevolent spirit and survive at all is a testament to her resilience. Something no Circle taught her, I’m sure.”

Vivienne cut her eyes to Djeneba with a frown.

“And how are you so well-versed in what Circles teach their mages? Hadiza’s condition would not be thus had she not tampered with forbidden magic.”

Djeneba laughed.

“What forbidden magic? Scrying? She knew the risk and she took every precaution she had at her disposal, Madame. If you are so concerned with her health, why did you not stop her before she could do it?”

Vivienne was quiet, looking ahead, toward where the training grounds lay. There was a distant ring of steel against steel. Hadiza was training for her Rite of Inheritance. Vivienne hoped Samson’s merciless tutelage would be enough.

“She did not tell me. She told only her sister and Dorian…and Samson. Had I known I would have stopped her myself.” Vivienne gripped her staff tighter. “You may think little of the Chantry and the Circle, Lady Fayé, but the safeguards are there for our protection as well as everyone else’s. You say the mages here train to be possessed and to expel spirits, but it is not a guarantee that every mage will be strong enough for such a trial. How do you handle the ones who are too far gone to be saved when a demon takes them?”

It was the one question no one asked and Djeneba looked away.

“The same way you do, I imagine.” She said instead, “It is a rare occurrence. You may think our ways barbaric and backward and unsafe, but we have endured for hundreds of years without an incident of mages rising up and using blood magic to enslave entire peoples. We have fought bloody for peace with the qunari, who treat their own mages like animals to be muzzled and chained. And despite our best efforts to appease the Chantry, Rivaini blood still mires the hallowed ground of Dairsmuid.”

Vivienne sensed the rawness of loss within Djeneba’s voice.

“The Seekers left nothing standing,” Djeneba continued, “Every single soul, down to the last babe, was put to the sword. Is that justice to you? To be branded something to be reviled for the crime of being born?”

Vivienne did not flinch in the face of Djeneba’s anger.

“No. It is unfair, my lady,” she said, “it is unfair that you and I are born and are dangerous because of what we are. We are capable of infinite destruction, and we are capable of healing. None of us asked for these powers, but…the Circles are the best chance we have of safely learning to control and navigate them. Let to our own devices, we are no better than Tevinter.”

“And yet the Imperium flourishes thousands of years later.” Djeneba remarked. Vivienne smiled.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but at what cost? Blood magic is not forbidden there, as well as a number of other dangerous forms of magic. But even they have safeguards in place, Djeneba. Templars protect us from ourselves and from others.”

“And slaughter children.” Djeneba interjected, “Vivienne you and I will never agree upon this subject, so it is best to disagree. There is a reason there has never been a Chantry built within Zazzau. Dairsmuid is not the first atrocity to have been visited upon Rivain at the Chantry’s hands. As I said: we have endured for centuries in our ways. I have been ridden by countless spirits, and am highly trained in the art.”

Vivienne sighed.

“And what of the mages who don’t make it, Djeneba? What do you do with the ones who do not stick to the lessons? The ones who want more than they need?”

Djeneba’s mouth set into a grim line.

“Why do you think we start early? We teach them young that they must respect the power they have, and that they must never take more than they need or risk endangering themselves. Those who do, learn quickly why. It is as I told you before: a mere Harrowing isn’t enough. They must understand all inhabitants of the Fade if they are to navigate it safely.”

Vivienne thought on it for a moment.

“And the ones who know but seek to harm?” She asked cooly, “What of them?”

Djeneba’s face was grim, but her eyes glittered like chipped obsidian.

“The ones who seek to use their magic to do harm find themselves quickly unwelcome in Rivain.” She said simply. Vivienne scoffed.

“That’s it, then? You just unleash your deadly mages onto the rest of the world because you refuse to deal with them yourself? It’s no wonder the Chantry wants to put a stop to the old ways.”

Djenba’s eyes flashed.

“I never said we don’t deal with them, Madame. Do not misunderstand me. I said they find themselves quickly unwelcome. You recall that the qunari have settled here, yes?”

Vivienne hazarded a slow glance to the other woman, whose face was painfully neutral.

“You send them to the qunari.” She stated quietly, masking her horror.

Djeneba nodded.

“And what becomes of them?” Vivienne asked.

Djeneba said nothing. Vivienne turned to face forward once more.

“And what of Hadiza? Does she know what you do to mages unfit to use magic?” Vivienne wondered how Hadiza would feel if her newfound family deigned her unfit as a mage and offered her up to the qunari like some sacrifice. The qunari were usually reticent on their ways, but if the Iron Bull was to be believed, their mages fared worse than any she’d heard of. That they subjected themselves to such treatment willingly was beyond her.

“She does not have to worry about such ugly truths, Madame,” Djeneba said quietly, “As I said: it is rare we are faced with mages who truly wish to do ill. We train them for many years to respect the Fade. The Circles would only train fear of the unknown into them, making them more susceptible to demon attacks.”

“How so?” Vivienne asked, genuinely curious. Djeneba smiled thinly.

“Imagine you are a child, just come into your powers. Because the Chantry wishes to herd mages into towers like some shameful secret, you have learned nothing of magic prior, save what the Chant tells you about it. You do not grow up learning about the Fade, the spirits, the benign and the malign, the maintenance of the sacred balance, or even how to keep calm so that you do not lose control of your abilities.”

Vivienne was quiet, but her brow knit slightly, briefly.

“Instead, you are alone,” Djeneba continued, “not unlike Hadiza was. We are not some backwater country as you would believe, Madame. We have ties outside our borders, and we hear about how mages beyond them are treated. If magic was taught in theory to all, it would make the transition of younger mages into their powers less frightening. If magic was treated as a gift and not a curse, perhaps you would have less mages falling prey to despair.”

Vivienne shrugged. “But one cannot account for every mage, my dear. It simply isn’t done. But I see your point. Teach them young so that if they become mages, they aren’t overwhelmed. It’s a quaint method, but ineffectual.”

“And yet,” Djeneba said indicating the sprawling lands around them, “we have endured with this method for centuries. When was the last time you heard about an overrun of possessed mages killing everything in sight on Rivaini soil?”

Vivienne said nothing. There was naught she could say to gainsay that.

“And what of mages with too much power and not enough control?” She asked instead. Djeneba laughed.

“Do you think your templars are the only ones who train to maintain the balance? We have our own version, but they are trained to neutralize mages, not slaughter them. If we can win a battle against an out of control mage bloodlessly, we seek to do so.”

There it was, that raw pain again. Vivienne flinched inwardly, but outward she was as cool as water.

“So you say,” she said, “but why do seers allow themselves to become abominations?”

“We are not abominations.” Djeneba said fiercely. “We commune with benign spirits to gain better perspective and understanding of the world around us. Through them, we learn more about the Fade than any existing texts could tell us. Through them, we can reclaim magic that was lost. In turn, for a brief instant, they can touch and feel the real world through our sacred rites.”

“And demons?” Vivienne asked.

“The malign spirits of the Fade seek to force the union we willingly enter with their benign counterparts. It is why we spend years perfecting the art of strengthening our mind and spirit against such attacks. Do not mistake our position as one that leaves the door open for anything to cross over, Madame. We train to fight demons in the Fade, but we also understand they are as native to it as the benign spirits we commune with. We have a healthy respect for their power, but to enter the Fade while blind with fear is to court your own downfall.”

Vivienne smiled. “On that we can agree, at least.” She faced Djeneba. “You have given me much to consider, Lady Fayé. But I would caution you on your treatment of Hadiza. She may be kin to you, but she is Circle trained, same as I. She might not see things the way you do.”

Djeneba watched as Hadiza sat Samson on a bench, pressing a cloth to his bleeding nose.

“No, but if I can get someone as stubborn as you to at least consider my words, mayhap there’s hope for the girl, hm?”

Vivienne laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lady Fayé. I said I would consider, not agree. Still, this was an informative and intellectually stimulating discussion. I should like to continue it another time.”

Djeneba inclined her head.

“You are always welcome here, Madame Vivienne,” she said softly, “even if you do not feel thus.”

Vivienne felt something on her skin, a presence, a warm touch of the divine. It robbed her of words for a moment, and something flooded her heart like joy and love entwined. She sucked in a breath, met Djeneba’s eyes, who gazed at her impassively.

“Thank you,” Vivienne said softly, regaining her composure and walking away.

She had much to consider indeed.


	23. Identify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson stares at his reflection, wondering who he's looking at.

Samson stares at himself in the mirror, trying to see what she does. Without his armor, he is not as terrifying as the songs say. Skin, muscle, bone, and scars; he is as mortal as the lives he has taken. There, across his shoulder, silvery scar tissue stretched across what was a bad burn from an angry mage. Across his ribcage, the claws of a demon tried to reave him.

He’s softer in the middle than he was at full strength, hair thick on his chest, a trail leading down to vanish beneath the band of his trousers.

Samson leans forward, feels the sharp ache in his lower back, an injury from a fall he took what seems a lifetime ago. He cannot remember what he did before he held a sword, before he wore armor, before he took lives. This is all that he is: warrior, champion, protector, disgrace.

His eyes are bloodshot, but not as bad as before, and the madness of the red no longer consumes his thoughts. His nails are cleaner, but his hands have never been rougher. Scarred knuckles, calluses on his palms and the joints of his fingers, spots from age. He feels as if he is falling apart.

But what is he without his sword? Without his armor? Who is Raleigh Samson?

He steals a glance to the bed on the far side of the room. She’s still asleep. She can’t answer this question. Who he is to her is not who he is to himself.

 _Warrior_. His mind tells him. That’s what he is. That’s what he has always been. It makes sense. The moment Meredith told him he was booted from the Order, Samson had not understood how to live without holding a sword. The armor shaped him, the shield defined him, the sword _affirmed_ him.

 _Champion_. His voice says as he remembers half a dozen nameless faces in dirtied Circle robes, soliciting him for help.

 _Protector_. He can remember the sense of vindictive purpose that flooded his veins alongside the lyrium when he aided the Champion against Meredith. He can feel the righteous fury all over again as he finally got what he saw as revenge and meted out justice.

 _Disgrace_. All too quickly, the memory is consumed in a red haze, and he can remember only the endless planning, marching, the screams of innocents as red lyrium turned their bodies into hideous corruptions; into veritable mines for him to make more. He remembers the faces of the survivors in Skyhold, who spat on him, jeered at him, threw rocks at him.

 _Love_. This is new. He remembers only the impression of lips against his, the soft, surprised gasp, the delight and thrill of this figment he knows the world will soon take from him. The lush weight of her in his arms, the salt of sweat and tears, the stickiness of her blood seeping between his fingers. He remembers a vow made on his knees, the weight of a new sword in his hands untainted by the blood of innocents.

 _Hope_. The present comes thundering back, dispelling the past as Samson once again focuses on his reflection. He knows that time is against him, that in the short few months or years he may have left, there is nothing he can do to change who and what he is. The ache in his lower back persists and he leaves the mirror, walks toward the window to stand in the sun. It is a pleasant warmth on his skin, the wood floor warm beneath his bare feet. There are people who need his sword and shield, people who have no swords and shields of their own.

 _That what you were trying to do?_ He asks, smiling to himself. _Protect the whole damn world?_

Samson rocks onto his toes and back on his heels, pressing his thumbs into the site of pain in his back, stretching. His spine cracks audibly and he grunts and sighs with relief.

He’ll figure it out, or he’ll die trying.

He likes the sound of hope.


	24. A Good Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cowardice. Avoidance. Takes place sometime after _Post Tenebras Lux_.

“You’re staring.”

Samson startles at the sensual slide of her voice on his senses, the amused note that blooms under the words. He clenches and unclenches his hands, nervous as he watches her sit in front of her vanity, fixing her hair. She’s fresh from a bath, her skin soft and satin-smooth, gleaming from the oil rubbed into it. He hasn’t acclimated to this, yet. Being the Inquisitor’s paramour.

Hadiza delicately combs her hair, the thick, heavy curls and waves damp and shining. Her robe slides down her shoulders and Samson stares again. It is not her flesh that has him fixated, but her movement. She is vain, very vain, but she is meticulous in the care of her body. Her skin is flawless because she is constantly seeking to scrub her lifestyle’s rough touch from it. Her hair–Maker there is so much of it!–is thick and shining because she keeps strange oils and butters on hand to see that it never dries out. Even when she returns from missions, sometimes weeks at time, the dust that clings to her seems loathe to stay.

Samson doesn’t think he could ever be that clean in his life. He looks down at his hands, then at her. This delicate woman with steel in her spine and starlight in her eyes. As she twists her hair up into a makeshift pile atop her head, she steals a glance at him over her shoulder, smiling when he looks away.

“Why so nervous?” She asks him, pinning her hair and moving to uncork one of the many little ornate jars on her vanity. Samson watches as she smoothes some sweet-smelling cream onto her face and neck. If it’s what makes her skin so soft he wants to bury himself in her constantly, he won’t complain.

“You don’t seem worried about anyone catching us up here, princess.” He says, trying to find some semblance of confidence.

Hadiza tilts her head, and he sees her quizzical expression reflected in the mirror.

“They have to knock.” She says simply and Samson laughs despite himself. He watches her rise, and he takes her in, robe and all. She walks to her desk, looking through the stack of papers awaiting her signature. Whose life is she ruining? Which noble will she favor? What trade routes will she alter? What petitions will she authorize? Samson thinks of the power she wields and his head spins. Gathering his courage, he goes to her, as nervous as a repentant sinner before his deity. Hadiza looks up, and her eyes watch him, unblinking. There’s wariness, but there’s a patient sort of anticipation there too.

“Why do you want me here?” He asks her. Hadiza’s hand stills over a sheet of paper, brushing over the inked words of someone needing her assistance. She looks him over, smiling.

“I already told you, Samson,” she replies, “is it not enough that I enjoy your company? You’ve seen me naked. You’ve been inside me…more than a few times. Are you suddenly so overcome with modesty and nervousness?”

Samson swallows as her words summon up memories. Yes, these things are true. He’s tumbled her more times than he can count, watched her dark body writhe in pleasure, seen that mouth shape around a plea in the form of his name. In truth, he can’t tell her how afraid he is that all of this pleasure and joy will be snatched from him because of something he may say or do.

But Hadiza can feel it, skittering beneath his skin like claws.

“I see.” She whispers and then comes to him. Her hands raise, hovering near his face in question. Her head tilts, and her eyes turn questioning. Samson shuts his eyes and she cups his face in her hands, leaning in.

“You are here because I want you,” she whispers against his mouth, “but it is your choice to refuse to come, Samson. If you wish this to end, you need to stop being afraid.”

“I’m not afraid, princess,” he responds and they kiss, brief but it puts enough of a fever in his blood that he can’t lie to her, “I just…don’t have the best history hanging onto a good thing.”

Hadiza smiles, laughs low and throaty.

“Who says you’re the one holding on?” She asks him and he makes a sound in his throat, both surprise and desire. His hands grip her waist through the slide of her silk robe.

“You don’t have to lie to or humor me, princess,” he tells her, pulling away, “I know what this is.”

Hadiza frowns. “Do you? Have you done this before?”

“With women who want me but shouldn’t? Yeah.”

“Why shouldn’t I want you, Samson?” Her voice is breathy, and her gaze heavy with the gravity of the question. Samson snorts.

“Look at me,” he says, “look at what I’ve done…who I’ve become. What makes me so…special?”

Hadiza’s hands trail down his chest.

“Samson if I knew that I’d tell you. But it feels right when you’re near me.”

He chokes on his next words, bottling them in his throat. He knows what this is, he can feel it, but he’s afraid of it. It’s too big, it’s too much, too intense for him to hang onto. If he stays, he’ll be consumed, and he’ll burn. Hadiza is quiet, waiting for him to answer her.

“The bards don’t sing love songs about men like me, princess,” he tells her, “are you still sure about this?”

“I don’t care about the songs.” She says, “I care about what I feel. And right now, I am telling you being with you feels very right.”

“In bed, maybe.”

“Samson!” She snaps, “Please, do not deign to insult or belittle me. If you are afraid of this, tell me, and I’ll stop. But I felt right long before I invited you into my bed.”

Samson thinks back to the first time they kissed, the first electrifying moments of holding her so intimately, of her sweet breath, and her warm body. He thinks of how she did not fight him, did not try and pull away. Her face was not one of revulsion, but suffused with a shock–a realization that something was burgeoning between them. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t felt it too.

“Shit.” He says by way of response. “I didn’t mean to…not what I meant to…shit.”

Hadiza smiles sadly. “I know.” Samson’s heart does something that terrifies him.

She doesn’t. She really doesn’t know.


	25. Stoneskin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson welcomes Hadiza back to Skyhold with sex. Cullen almost catches them, gets his still-raw feelings hurt.

She’s been away for too damn long. He can feel the change in the atmosphere when the cheers go up, welcoming her back to Skyhold. He’s wheeling out stone for the ruined south tower when he spots her. She’s still in her armor, glimmering like a beacon in the harsh winter sunlight, her hair bound in a single braid down her back. She’s astride her horse, a Friesian named Nyx, and he can see why the people are so quick to follow her.

In that moment, he wants to cheer too, but instead, he pretends he does not care.

Later, when the celebrations have commenced, and she retires to her chambers to wash and change, he goes to her. She’s coming down the steps, clad in a velvet dress of rich, emerald green. She holds it as she descends, revealing silk shoes. Her hair has been washed and combed, and a gold chained circlet adorns her head. She looks every bit a princess.

“Samson,” she says, slightly winded, breathless, but smiling. Samson smiles too.

“Welcome back, princess.” He says, looking her over, “I should probably get out of your way, eh?”

Hadiza stops him, reaches forward, pulls too hard on his arm. They meet in the middle, and he catches her around the waist.

“No, don’t go…” She whispers and then there’s no use for words. She kisses him. She breaks the lock he keeps on his desire, and suddenly it is too much. He pushes her against the wall for balance, mere feet from the door leading into the main hall, and hears the insistent click of their teeth as they kiss.

“Maker…!” She gasps, panting, her breasts heaving with her breaths, “I…” She can’t seem to form the words, so she kisses him again, gentler this time.

“I’ll be around, princess, when you’re done with you adoring public.” Samson says, but Hadiza shakes her head.

“Now.” She says, “Please…it’s been weeks and I–”

Samson seals his mouth over hers, grateful that her desire is just as forceful and consuming as his. Hadiza is wanton behind closed doors, hiking up her skirts as Samson unlaces his breeches. It’s quick, the way he frees his cock, flushed dark and hot with arousal, and she pulls her smalls aside as she drapes one leg over his arm. He angles himself and thrusts upward, making her gasp.

Hadiza shivers, delighted by the familiar stretch of having him inside of her again. Instantly, there’s a wash of wet warmth along his cock, making the glide smooth between them. Samson hisses through clenched teeth.

“Andraste’s tears…” He whispers, “I don’t think I’m going to…” He moves, eager and hard. Hadiza bites her lip but the sound in her throat escape anyway, making her tip her head back against the wall. There is the sound of scuffling as they work to keep balance, and Samson fucks her with shallow thrusts, only sliding out of her halfway before he buries himself in her again.

Hadiza’s arms come around him, only for her to reach blindly, nails biting into the grooves between the stones, scrabbling against it to maintain her balance. In one instant, she cries out when she finds the angle that pleases her.

Samson pulls out of her, lowering her leg.

“Turn around.” He says and Hadiza is glassy eyed and confused. She turns. Samson lifts her skirts again, biting his lip at the sight of those silk stockings, tugging her smalls aside. The air is cold so he buries himself in her again.

This time, he knows she’s satisfied. She staggers, spreading her legs wider as Samson grips her hips, pulling her back and forth against him. He catches the lovely line of her profile as she presses her cheek against the rough stone, moaning low in her throat, trying to keep quiet.

He doesn’t want her quiet, because he wants whoever is on the other side of the door to know.

He gives her ass a hard crack, watches as her back dips, opening herself to him even more. He revels in the wet, erotic sound of his cock moving in and out of her, in the sheen of slick along her inner thighs, and the way she looks, heavy-lidded and groaning, her cunt spread around his cock.

Maker this is a homecoming if there ever was one.

He doesn’t last long enough to enjoy it, and when he comes, he pulls her back–all of her–pressing her body against him as his hand comes to her throat. She shivers violently, squeezing her legs together as he spends inside of her.

“Don’t spill a drop, princess,” he whispers hotly, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses along her neck and ear. “We have a lot of catching up to do, and I want you full of me.”

Hadiza shivers again, and comes. Samson shuts his eyes against the sensation, the feel of her climax too intense for him. But he slides out of her slowly, adjusting her small as she leans against the wall, catching her breath. Her circlet is askew, and her hair is slightly frizzed from the light sheen of sweat, but there is a glow to her that is unmistakeable. They kiss again, slower, their hunger sated for now, but it does not negate the joy of it.

When they dress and open the door, Cullen takes one look at them, and blood rushes to his face.

“Commander.” Samson greets smugly, tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he walks past him, heading toward the undercroft. Hadiza wipes her swollen mouth, and adjusts her circlet for good measure.

“Did you need something?” She asks and Cullen stares at her, caught between anger, disgust, and resentment. He turns and walks away, gesturing to Josephine who shoots a questioning gaze at Hadiza. Frowning, Hadiza makes her way into the main hall. She bites her lip on a smile when she feels the slick, hot stickiness of Samson’s seed in her smalls, and recalling the hot whisper of his words, she squeezes her thighs together.

Cullen’s resentment and disgust burn into her back as she greets her guests.


	26. Offerings, Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a visit to Rivain, Hadiza is made an offer she must refuse.

Hadiza’s visits were more frequent than her family expected, and as per the custom of Rivain, she always brought gifts from her travels, mostly for the children of the house, of which there were plenty. After coming to an accord and passing her trials as a seer, Oluremi and Babacar had wasted no time in continuing the bloodline, and as Hadiza ascended the steps into the main house, she saw her cousin, looking plump and ready to burst with child.

“Ah, cousin,” Oluremi said, turning slowly on her aching feet to face her, “back already? Are you taking advantage of my inability to fight?” She smiled, cat-like and amused, and Hadiza laughed.

“If it would soothe your ego, then yes. But I am not here on business. I merely wished to see you all.” She embraced her cousin awkwardly, mindful of her swollen belly. Oluremi pulled away to look up at Hadiza.

“There is the knowledge of war in your eyes, cousin,” she said solemnly, “what have you seen?”

Hadiza looked away. “Enough that I need speak of it no further, Oluremi. Is the matriarch in?”

Oluremi watched her cousin’s face for a moment longer, considering, and then nodded firmly.

“Yes, she is in the garden, speaking with the battlemages, I believe.”

That gave Hadiza pause.

“Is House Fayé preparing for war?” She asked, and there was something unstrung in her voice, and Oluremi knew what it was and shivered.

“Not necessarily,” she explained, “but go. We will speak later. Mama Djeneba can give you more information.” Oluremi looked past Hadiza, nodding firmly. “Ser Templar.”

“Lady Fayé.” Samson greeted curtly, nodding back. Oluremi waddled away, flanked by two servant girls, who were quiet and unobtrusive. Samson sucked his teeth.

“Think the Queen got the message?” He asked and Hadiza bit her lip, rubbing the area just above where her left arm ended.

“It certainly seems so. The Qunari nearly staged a successful coup on two fronts. It was only by the grace of luck that we managed to thwart it.” Hadiza murmured, clearly distressed. Samson placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll get it sorted out. It may just be some changes are happening that got nothing to do with war. Go find your aunt. I’ll be around.” He took her hand, kissed her knuckles once, and let her go.

Hadiza had visited House Fayé long enough to know its hallowed halls by rote, and before long, she passed from the cool marble breezeways into the vast, sprawling garden and courtyard. Sure enough, her Aunt Djeneba was speaking with a small contingent of mages, all of them covered in tattoos that denoted their rank, specialization, and skill. Hadiza waited, unsure and lingering on the peripheries, wanting answers.

As the battlemages were dismissed, Djeneba waited, as still as living statuary. Hadiza made her way to her aunt, kneeling on one knee by way of greeting.

“ _Mutane albarka_ , auntie,” she said, smiling, eyes downcast. Djeneba touched Hadiza’s shoulder with one hand, laden with gold rings, marked with many tattoos. Even here, in this place of tranquility, Hadiza could feel the unfathomable deep that was her aunt’s mana pool.

“Hadiza,” Djeneba’s voice held the quiet gravity of one born and bred to solemnity, and she smiled slightly at her niece, “be welcome here. Your journey was without incident, I hope?”

Hadiza grinned, shrugging. “As well as could be expected. I see Oluremi is making good on producing potential heirs.”

Djeneba laughed. “I told her there is no need for so many, but I welcome the sound of children in these halls. Still, I believe she and my son are finally at a place one can only dream of in an arranged marriage.”

Hadiza nodded. Djeneba inclined her head, the gold chains of her diadem clinking prettily. Hadiza had never met the Queen of Rivain, even as the Inquisitor, but she hazarded a guess that Djeneba’s accoutrements were a microcosm of what to expect within the Royal Palace of Dairsmuid.

“And you?” Djeneba asked, “How are you and your templar doing?”

Hadiza smiled fondly at the mention of Samson. It was a habit she could not break.

“He is well enough. He seems to like coming here, despite his aversion to the heat.” Hadiza flexed her false hand, shaking off the ghost of living flesh and bone moving at her command. Djeneba watched, her expression grave.

“I dreamed of you two, not a fortnight past,” she said without preamble. Hadiza sucked in a breath. She knew little of the inner secrets of the seers, who guarded their gifts and knowledge jealously, but she had seen a seer’s power firsthand. She knew better than to discount the nature of dreams.

“What did you see?” She asked, her voice tremulous. Djeneba did not smile and Hadiza feared the worst.

“It was not something I could explain to one not skilled in the nature of reading dream-signs,” Djeneba told her, “but needless to say that while you two may have left the Inquisition and the Chantry behind, I do not think your legacy is over.”

“Solas.” Hadiza said and there was a venom in her words, a bitterness as black and fould as the _hygieia_ root. Djeneba nodded once.

“Even so. I fear your destiny is tied to this elf. He is...formidable.” Djeneba’s brow creased in consternation, as if the remnants of a dream still clung to her consciousness.

“Tell me about it.” Hadiza muttered, rubbing the seam between her living arm and the false one.

“You will need protection from him.” Djeneba said, “I have felt the echoes of his presence amidst the Dreamscape. I cannot track him, but--”

Hadiza’s eyes grew wide. “Aunite, please! Do not pursue him. Especially not in the Fade. He is...he is formidable as you say, and not to be taken lightly. Whatever use he had for me is done. He got what he came for. Please, do not pursue him.”

Djeneba’s brows raised. “You worry for my safety?”

“Auntie, he is not...he speaks as if he is kind, but he is anything but. I have seen him kill with a literal thought. I will not have my family endangered by this.” Hadiza paced. “Maker! I...what protection would you offer me? In the Fade, I am just another mage. I am no seer.”

Djeneba said nothing, merely watched. Hadiza hesitated.

“Wait.” She said, “You think I could be...no. _No_. After before, I cannot give myself over to that lifestyle.”

“Your soul has been ravaged,” Djeneba said, “I know this. But you have the gift, Hadiza. Even you must see that. You would not have been able to use scrying magic untrained otherwise.”

Hadiza paused. “I had the aid of a focus, auntie. And a circle of protective wards that took months to complete. It is not untrained. And had I not tampered with it, I would have--”

“--never have met us.” Djeneba finished, “And who is to say where your journey would have taken you? Would Corypheus have been stopped? Would you and your templar have loved each other as deeply as you do, now? Would your magic be stronger?”

Hadiza was silent. She did not know, and in many cases, did not want to. Her gaze shifted to the breezeway, finding Samson easily, who spoke with one of the warriors in easy tones. It had taken many visits, but House Fayé had acclimated to a templar in their midst, although many still kept their distance, watchful and wary as prey.

“I cannot protect you here, in this world,” Djeneba told her, “but the Dreamscape is the seer’s home field advantage.”

Hadiza shook her head. If she told her auntie what she knew of the Fade, the Veil, the spirits, it would shatter her. She allowed her aunt to attempt protection.

“He is not a threat to me,” Hadiza reiterated, “nor I to him. Not yet, anyway.”

“You should think on my offer, Hadiza,” Djeneba insisted, “it may be your only salvation.”

Her patience wore a little thin, and Hadiza turned on her aunt.

“And what does that mean? Samson and I are perfectly capable of handling ourselves. I…I am _not_ a seer, auntie. Nor do I want to be.”

“Are you afraid?” Djeneba asked her, “Of what it will mean if you become one?”

Hadiza never took her eyes off Samson, who was gesturing with his hands, grinning, laughing. The warrior he spoke with was mirthful too, teeth stark against his dark face, clapping and laughing as Samson no doubt recounted one of his adventures to the man.

“Yes.” Hadiza said quietly, “There are lines I will draw, auntie. I understand what the seers do, and what they mean to Rivain…to my family. But my path is…my path lies elsewhere.”

Both women were quiet for a time.

“Is House Fayé preparing for war?” Hadiza asked, breaking the silence. At her aunt’s withered intake of breath, Hadiza feared the answer.

“Not necessarily, but after the qunari attack on Kano, and their subsequent aggression in the south, the Queen thought it prudent to put her forces on high alert. So we have been…making preparations.”

Hadiza faced her aunt.

“What will happen? Rivain has maintained a truce with the qunari for centuries. Why attack?”

Djeneba shrugged.

“The qunari are many things, but dishonest is not high up on the list of things I would label them as. They have long held contention about the state of anyone outside of their belief system. You have seen how they deal with their mages, yes?” Hadiza nodded. “Then you understand that our truce with them has been tentative at best.”

Hadiza shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

“But a war with the qunari would be disastrous from Rivain. Their weapons are destructive…and I have taken on their mages. The saarebas are unlike any other mages I’ve ever seen.”

Djeneba nodded.

“Yes, I know. But nonetheless, we must prepare. After hearing how their spies infiltrated the Inquisition, we thought it best to keep things on a need-to-know basis. If…if anything happens, know that House Fayé will do as it has always done to protect Zazzau and Rivain itself.”

Hadiza felt a chill go down her spine, and averted her gaze. The thought of all out war when she had only just found a family to which she could truly belong was troubling. She was tired of having to cling so tightly to what she loved, only for fate to snatch it from her uncaring. Samson made his way to the women, bidding farewell to the young warrior he’d been speaking with.

“Lady Fayé.” Samson greeted, bowing low, allowing her to rest her hand on his head gently in response as he rose, “You’re looking lovely this evening.”

Djeneba smiled.

“And you’re looking healthier than when last we met. Glad to see Rivain is beginning to agree with you.” She said, “Hadiza, think on my offer. Please. And if you ever change your mind, I am here.” She left them standing in the garden, and the scent of jasmine wafted behind her, even as honeysuckle bloomed around them, sweet and soft.

“She doesn’t like me much, does she?” Samson asked. Hadiza shook her head.

“She likes you well enough, love. Not everyone will love you as madly as I do.” She laughed when Samson leaned in to steal a kiss.

“So what is it she offered you?” He asked. Hadiza was quiet a moment, and reached over to laced her fingers with his. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, his expression suspicious but patient.

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”


	27. Strange & Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another snapshot. NSFW.

He didn’t think she’d miss him that badly, but from the way she launched into his arms, the way her mouth clumsily found his, sending his sword dropping from his hands, he decided not to question it.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he held her, cupping her bottom as she kissed him again and again, heedless of the dust and sweat all over him.

“Princess…” He murmured, when she finally deigned to come up for air.

“You’re safe.” She said to him, eyes bright with joy. “When they told me how bad it was down there, I thought…”

Samson squeezed her bottom, meant to be reassuring, and set her on her feet.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” He told her. “Things were dicey for a spell, but we pulled through, eh? I’m guessin’ it’s been right quiet on this end, then?”

Hadiza nodded, placing a hand over his armored chest. For a moment, they were quiet. In the months since she’d assigned him to assist in mop-up operations, they had become more than passing fond of one another. It was no secret that the Inquisitor had become enamored of a certain former general. And Samson, for his part, allowed speculation of his role to circulate. He’d not give anything that wasn’t public knowledge.

Aside, there was a certain thrill in knowing how the nosey bastards burned their brains out trying to discern what they were to one another.

“Dagna wants to study the spell I constructed for the scrying chamber,” Hadiza said to him, “or what’s left of it. Most of it was burned away, but I’ve given her access to my notes and proofs used in its crafting.”

She hesitated, and Samson took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb along the tender flesh of her palm.

“It would seem that room has become a magical deadzone. Whatever combination of magics we used–your abilities and mine–has buffered the Veil there. Spells won’t work. Dagna is running tests to see how widespread this effect is.”

His brows shot up. “We did all that? Well, shit.” Hadiza smiled, turning from him, and he watched her walk toward the armor stand, and he followed. It had become ritual for them. He would come back from an assignment, and she would help him strip away his armor, piece by piece. Her fingers were deft, undoing laces and buckles alike, and Samson helped her, breathing deeper as the weight of his armor allowed him more movement. Still, there was an underlying anxiety, one born from being trapped within the silverite armor for so long that he felt vulnerable and exposed without it.

Hadiza embraced him in this state, and Samson hesitated before his arms came around her. He felt…safer.

“Now,” she murmured, “into the bath with you.”

Samson laughed. “Not going to let a man bask in the glory of his own hard work for a moment, princess?”

Hadiza wrinkled her nose. “Basking in your own stink is not my idea of a victory. Bath. Now.”

Samson sighed, feigning exasperation.

“On one condition,” he offered, “join me?”

Hadiza pursed her lips and looked ready to reject the offer, but she smiled instead.

“If you’re good.” She said cryptically. Samson tugged her closer, leaning in to kiss her lips.

“I can be if you give me a chance, princess.”

And so she joined him. Samson could ask for nothing better in that moment, watching the silk robe pool around her feet. As she hung it up, he took that moment to let himself run appraising eyes along every inch of her naked body. Her skin was rich and dark and lustrous, satin soft. He could see the faint silver marks of old scars, and some recent. But he saw them as part of the fabric of her body’s history, as road markers when he explored every soft inch of her with hands and mouth.

She came to the edge of the bath, stepping into the water. A chain of silver was around her waist, intricately carved medallions, lending a luxurious adornment to her shape. His eyes settled on the soft cloud of downy, black curls between her thighs until she sat, submerged up to her shoulders, in the deep tub. She came to him slowly, the steam making her appear dream-like. Samson thought for a moment he _had_ dreamt her, and that if he blinked, he’d find himself alone or worse.

But as she touched him, and he could feel the weight of her upon him, he let himself immerse in the dreamy quality of the environment. The chamber was silent save for the soft movement of the water around them, and he let her lather his hair with soap, made a noise that could have been a purr or a growl of approval as she scrubbed him down with care.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, pouring a bowl of water over his head to rinse, “the Inquisitor reduced to a bathing maid for the general.”

Samson chuckled. “Can’t say I haven’t…entertained the thought of you doing this for me. But you know we can always switch.”

“I do,” she said, “and we will. But I need you clean.”

And so she did. Samson endured her scrubbing with an amused mien, laughing when he’d steal a touch, a kiss, or a nip along the planes of her flesh and she swatted at him playfully. And soon, the roles were reversed.

Samson took his time with her.

“So much hair…” He said as she leaned back into his hands, his strong fingers working her hair into a copious lather, “Ever thought of sharing it with the rest of us?”

“No.” Hadiza said haughtily, “Are you jealous?”

Samson dunked her beneath the water, and she came up sputtering with laughter.

“Is that a yes?” She asked as she parted the heavy curtain of her hair from her face. Samson smirked, watching her submerge again before she reemerged, her head thrown back, the water coming up to her waist. He watched the rivulets run the paths and curves of her body, between the deep valley of her breasts, droplets coming from the puffy buds of her nipples, along the taut plain of her waist.

He reached for her, sliding her into his lap.

“It’s not a no.” He murmured, leaning in to nip at her breast. She shuddered, and Samson smiled, repeating the motion, but ending with enveloping the dark bud of her nipple between his lips. Hadiza let out a sound that echoed in the chamber, and her hands came to rest on his shoulders.

Samson lingered on her breasts for a span of time, until she was shivering both from the chill and from his ministrations. When he reached beneath the water, he placed two fingers between her legs. Even in the water, he could feel how slick she was.

“Now?” He asked, grinning at her. Hadiza wanted to say yes.

“Not here,” she said, “I want you in bed.”

Samson inclined his head. “As you wish, princess.”

He had to admit, having her in bed was a damn sight better than making a mess of the bath. And he would always enjoy her best when she was soft and damp, her cunt slick as she built herself up. She lay on the bed, a strong and beautiful contrast amidst white and gold sheets, and for a moment, he just wanted to look at her. She rolled onto her side, sitting up slightly.

“What is it?” She asked him, her eyes bright and and knowing. Samson shook his head.

“Nothing.” He lied, and went to her.

He kissed her soundly, kissed her until she moved beneath him, clinging to him in desperation. He enjoyed how her mouth felt, all softness, her tongue warm as she traced his bottom lip with it. He kissed the tender and sleek line of her jaw, the arc of her throat, the contour of her collarbone. He lingered at her breasts again, relishing her enthusiastic reaction.

When he pulled back to look at her, she sat up amidst the pillows and the headboard, staring at him, slightly concerned.

“You’re doing it again.” She said. Samson blinked.

“What? What am I doing?” He asked. Hadiza laughed.

“Staring at me. Is something the matter?” She reached forward, brushed the delicate tips of her fingers over his rough cheek. It took everything in him not to lean into that touch from the moment he felt it. When she cupped his cheek, however, he did lean in then, only slightly.

“Just can’t…you’re so damned beautiful.” He admitted. Hadiza’s smile was wide, animating her dark face, and even that made his heart hurt.

“Thank you,” she replied, “but is my beauty going to be a problem? I want you, you know.”

Samson laughed. “Shameless to the last. Why do you want me, princess? Why me and not some pretty lad with summer blue eyes?”

Hadiza frowned slightly, and she adjusted, crossing her legs.

“Because.” She said, thinking, “You feel right. And I find you handsome.”

“I feel right.” He repeated, “The man who tried to kill you feels right.”

Hadiza smiled. “Yes. I’d say it adds a bit of danger to the liaison, wouldn’t you agree?”

Samson didn’t know what to make of that.

“Strange woman.” He said in response, hands coming to smooth along her thighs. “Strange and beautiful.”

“Strange man,” Hadiza said back, “strange and tender and good.”

He came to her in earnest, and words were forgotten, tossed aside in favor of actions. Actions that consisted of a kiss that seared the edges of his soul like a white-hot flame, the lifting of her legs to draw him in. There was a strange presence in the room, bright and benevolent and tender, and as Hadiza lay back, she groaned through her smile as Samson slid into her, their hips joined and flush against one another.

He made love to her, then, because it was all he could do. He watched her come apart at the seams, smelled the faint ozone of her magic as he watched glimmers of electricity chase the path of her rushing blood. He surged forward and pulled back. _He_  was the sea to her shore, and she met him with every stroke, pulling him in eagerly before he’d had a chance to pull out.

The sun warmed his back as he lowered himself to kiss her, to drink down and gorge himself on the sounds she made, and she laughed! Maker, she laughed as their pace slowed, as they restored some clarity to the atmosphere they’d created.

“Strange and beautiful.” He repeated, leaving tender kisses along her throat, following the path with his tongue.

“Mmm.” Was her response, which was more than enough for him. He wanted it to last longer, but he couldn’t, and soon he spent himself, shuddering, leaving a bruising imprint of his teeth on her neck as she shivered in his arms, eyes closing from the flood of hot, sticky heat.

Afterward, they lay there, basking in the late afternoon sunlight, their fevered flesh cooling in the open space of the room. She held him tenderly, stroking his damp hair, pressing a kiss so soft to his temple he could have wept.

Strange. Strange and tender and good.


	28. Rainy Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Babacar have a talk on a rainy day.

Summers in the Marches are nothing compared to the rainy season in Rivain. Samson is thankful most of the time, for the heavy deluges means the accursed sun will not come to burn him out of his skin. He still maintains that here, in this country where everyone has skin like black gold, that the sun is much closer to the ground than in the southern city-states of the Marches. Still, the rains make the land muddy, and the mornings thick with mist that settles on the skin like sweat, but the sun is blocked by cloud cover, weak and watery.

The river that snakes through the small country, called the _Maigani Hanyar_ , overflows its banks nigh up to the tree line of the sparse forests. Farmers irrigate these flood waters in the plains, channeling the bounty to ensure their crops are evenly watered. Life is slow and easy in Rivain, but he cannot help but feel there is an undercurrent of wariness, a watchfulness he recalls seeing all too often in the Gallows of Kirkwall. The people have endured more than he can encompass, and the generational trauma of that endurance has bred in them a suspicion of outsiders, especially those like him, who once served the very deity that sought to destroy them.

He cannot begrudge them this suspicion, and he knows that the trust he has earned amongst House Fayé is hard-won. He may not have shed blood for this House, but he has taken one of its daughters to wife, and he _has_ shed blood for her. It is enough for them.

The rain obscures the outlying demesne of Zazzau, the sound of it against the stone breezways and metal rooftops loud and overpowering to the senses. It drowns out his thoughts, and he retreats inside. During these torrential downpours, the sprawl of House Fayé’s interior is blessedly cool, the windows open, the misty breeze from the rains setting the curtains to billowing and drifting, hovering over the wide marble halls like great, predatory birds.

He finds Hadiza in the library, bent over a book. Ink stains her hand as she writes carefully on a thick sheet of vellum. Her candle’s flame flickers in the subtle breeze, and a clap of thunder sets the bookshelves to shuddering. She does not look up, her brow knit in concentration as she flips a page, her mouth shaping words in Rivaini, slow and careful. Samson smiles debating whether to join her, but not wanting to interrupt what looks to be important work. He turns away, retreating. It’s too wet to train, and the entire household seems lulled into a meditative mood. Servants pass here and there, as silent as ghosts, as unobtrusive as shadows, disappearing around corners like whispers.

Samson finds the quiet…disquieting. His palms itch for the familiar shape and weight of a sword’s pommel, and he hates to admit it…but even a dragon attack would not be remiss right about now.

He wanders the halls, not quite belonging to this place, where mages reign, and magic runs deep in its stone foundations.

“You look uneasy, Ser Templar,” a voice startles him out of reverie, and he turns, slowing his hand from reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Babacar stares at him, silver eyes alight with the same amusement that quirks his mouth.

“I’m…” Samson hesitates, “No. It’s just…it’s as quiet as a damned cloister in here. Is it always like this?”

Babacar shrugs.

“I am not sure I understand.” He says, his Common heavily accented, “The rains are too heavy for anyone to be out, and ‘tis best to wait out the storm. Even then, the pit is too muddy to do anything but adaption training. Do you find it…bothersome?”

“No,” Samson says, “Just dull. I’m not used to having this much free time and no where to spend it is all. Shit, I sound like a child barely off his mum’s teat.” He laughs self-deprecatingly.

Babacar laughs, not understanding the joke, but the intent is clear enough.

“What do you do, in your country, on days like this?” He asks. Samson hesitates again, wondering which memories he should call to the surface. He feels the memories of Kirkwall are so far away that it might as well have been another man who lived them, and everything after that is a disaster. He thinks of Hercinia, of dicing with sailors at the docks, of drinking until his belly is as warm as a hearth, or making love to Hadiza.

Maker, but he’s a simple man with simple tastes.

“Nothing much, really,” he says, “I don’t really have much by way of friends. When I was a young lad, might have found a bit of trouble to get into in the local brothel or tavern, but these days…” He shrugs, letting the sentence trail as it will. Babacar nods. He’s younger than Hadiza by a handful of years, but Samson sees wisdom in the lad that matches hers. He wonders what kind of patriarch the boy will be.

“And your wife is busy studying every book she can get her hand on in the library.” Babacar teases. Samson grins. There is naught he can say about that. Hadiza is a mage first and foremost, and access to the wealth of knowledge and resources of her matrilineal home is a gift too perfect for her to overlook. He will never begrudge her a single moment of study.

“She’s got her priorities.” He agrees, “Me? I’m a simple man, but this rain is unnatural. Never rains like this in the Marches. Even along the coast.”

Babacar nods. “Mm. So tell me about Kirkwall. What was it like? We have heard many stories about the southern city-states, and even as far south as Ferelden and Orlais, but I myself have never been.”

Samson is surprised. “Truly? You’ve never been outside Rivain?”

Babacar laughs. “I did not say I have never traveled, Ser Templar, only that I’ve never been to the south. Antiva is as far south as many of our people will go. The seers do journey all over as part of their training, however.”

Samson has heard of these rites, although everything surrounding the seers of Rivain remain a mystery to him. Even Hadiza remains tight-lipped about that particular aspect of her culture.

“Well,” Samson rubs the back of his neck, “The Marches aren’t like a country. Every city-state won its independence from Orlais fair as they could.” He doesn’t miss Babacar’s smile, quick and cutting. Rivain bears no love for Orlais either. Samson wonders how the damned country has lasted this long when it has earned the enmity of so many other sovereign nations.

“So each city in the Marches is different. Starkhaven is the largest, and I guess if the Marches had a capital, that’d be it. Kirkwall used to be a Tevinter city, so it’s got all the…harshness you’d expect from it. Lots of ugliness in its history, come to think of it…”

Babacar frowns. “You take pride in your city,” he says, “which I have heard is where slaves were herded in the days of the Imperium.”

Samson shrugs. “I was raised mostly in Kirkwall, lad. Can’t blame me for loving the only place I ever called home for most of my life. History isn’t so great, but it was home nonetheless.”

“And now you make your home elsewhere.” Not a question. Samson blinks slowly.

“Yeah.” He says after a moment, “Guess I do. Kirkwall didn’t feel so much like home after I left. And I can never go back.”

“Because of what you did.”

“Yeah. Because of what I did. They’d flay me alive if I got within two leagues of the city harbor.”

Babacar does not look so amused, and there is no cruelty in him.

“But you have done much to atone for what harm you wrought,” Babacar reasons, “you are not the same man you were when you opposed my cousin.”

Samson remembers only a haze of red, and the feel of fire scorching through the pipes of his veins. He was half-mad with rage that had seen no outlet, but smart enough to know the path he walked was a corrupted and dark one.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, “that’s as much apart of me now as it was then, I think. Can’t separate myself from what I’ve done. Even if I don’t believe I should have done it in the first place.”

Babacar nods. “It takes more strength and courage to admit when one has done a grievous wrong, I think. I would say you are more different than you give yourself credit for.”

Samson smiles at him, slightly incredulous. “You think so, eh? What do you know of what I’ve done, lad? Did your cousin tell you how we met?”

Babacar laughs. “You tried to kill her and she buried your army under an avalanche.”

Samson remembers. “Yeah, damn near killed herself just to stop me and…” His tongue halts on the name, as if speaking it will summon the specter of the magister he knows is well and truly dead.

“And then you ran from her when she decided to hunt you.” Babacar continues, “Did you fear her?”

Samson remembers the boasts in his letters, of how the Inquisition was powerless to stop him, and how he did not fear the Inquisitor finding him. Hadiza was only her title to him in those days.

Knowing her now, he should have feared for his life.

“Not at the time.” He says, “But I should have. She is…resilient.”

Babacar rubs at the scar on his face–Hadiza’s doing. “Yes.” He agrees.

The rain grows quieter as the storm spends the last of its strength. Soon, the patter of drops on the stone pathways and the metal rooftops are reduced to rhythmic drips. Samson smirks.

“I enjoyed this talk, Babacar,” he says, “we should do this more often.”

He holds out his hand in a gesture of goodwill. Babacar takes it, clasps at the elbow.

“Yes, Ser Templar.” He agrees, “It would seem you are far more than a brute in shining armor calling himself a knight, eh?” They release one another.

“Your words or your father’s?” Samson asks, amused. Babacar laughs and walks away.


	29. Rain on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

It’s still raining when Hadiza finds him. He’s leaned back in a chair, legs outstretched, arms crossed, eyes closed.

 _Kamar sarkin_. She thinks with a smile that is as soft as a kiss. Samson’s health has vastly improved in the long year since the Inquisition disbanded. And she finds she admires the aquiline profile he presents, the slight bulb in his throat that bobs with each swallow. There is something about him that compels her, and she comes to him, brushing her fingertips over the hollow of his cheek, against the sandy shadow of his stubble.

“Mm.” His voice blooms out of his chest and through his throat, and his eyes open barely, to look at her. “You some kind of apparition?”

Hadiza laughs, cups his cheek, and shakes her head wordlessly. Samson uncrosses his arms, stretches, and reaches for her.

“Let me make sure.” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. Hadiza obliges him, lets him pull her into his waiting lap. For a moment, he merely buries his face in her bosom, breathing in the scent of her sweat and that soft, floral scent in her skin. Hadiza lets him, only because in this moment, she feels the most beautiful, the most loved.

Samson turns his head, can feel the bud of one of her nipples through the thin fabric as she gasps from the contact, making him smile.

“Still not convinced?” She asks and then clenches her teeth on a sound as Samson gently bites her nipple through the fabric.

“No. I have to keep looking…make sure it’s all real.” He murmurs, running his tongue along the puffy bud, feeling the curve of her back arch against his strong and sure embrace.

The knots of the hanging sleeves come undone easily under his touch, and she shrugs out of the shift, the gauzy silk sliding down her shoulders. Samson kisses the curve of one breast, takes the nipple fully into his mouth, tugging gently. Hadiza lets him hear her. They shift in the chair while she straddles him, tugging the gauzy silks of her skirt up, allowing her sandals to fall to the floor.

Samson knows she’s real, knows the planes of her flesh as surely as any general knew the lay of a battlefield, knew the maps of his holdings. He kisses the river of scars along the curve of her shoulder, traces the mark of her _Tawada_  with a careless grace she didn’t realize he was capable of. He is achingly gentle with her, mapping the reality of her existence with his hands.

“I should be asking if you are real, Raleigh.” She murmurs as he tilts his head up to catch her mouth with his. The kiss is long, saturated and dwelled upon. Hadiza wants him so badly, but time has taught her a temperance that makes the desire sweeter. She tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling away to breathe, taking a small, private pleasure when she sees his lips are parted and panting.

“You should find out.” He challenges her, and she trails her hand down his throat, feels his heavy swallow, and reaches between them. Trapped against his breeches, he’s hard and warm, and she curls her fingers around him through the loose fabric, holding him in a sure grip. Samson hisses quietly, wanting so much more than her hand.

“You feel real enough for me,” Hadiza says idly, a sly smile alighting her face. Samson leans back enough to help her free him, but then changes his mind, cupping her rear to pull her closer. The exposed heat of his cock brushes between her thighs and she shivers.

“Go on.” He tells her, another open challenge. Hadiza guides him, but doesn’t seat herself. Samson knows he’s going to lose when she drags the tip of his cock back and forth along the slick length of her opening. He lifts his hips, nudges her open a little more, but she moves away, only allowing him to brush the entrance, and never to sheathe himself.

She continues this maddening display until sweat sheens on his temple and brow, until his grip on her backside is harsh enough to leave the marks of his nails imprinted in her skin.

“Say it.” She whispers, leaning in. “Say it for me, Raleigh.”

He says it, says the words she desires like a prayer. It is a bid for mercy, for clemency, for her to make an end to his torment and take him. Only when she hears the rough torrent of his voice shift to pleading does she take him…slowly. She bites her lip against a moan, loving how well they fit together, loving how close they can be in this way. That she loves him implicitly makes the joining all the sweeter.

Samson’s hands slide up her back, drawing her in for a kiss, needful, drowning beneath her. Hadiza doesn’t move, letting him feel the hot, slick velvet of her around him, and he swallows hard to wet his dry throat, panting as she contracts her muscles to squeeze against him.

“Maker…” He whispers, “Ah… _Maker_ …”

Hadiza begins to move, and Samson feels the world bleed away, dwindle down to only the sensation of her sliding against him, of her scent surrounding him, smearing sentient thought. He can only think of her right now, because she has him in every way a woman can have him. She leans in to press her mouth against his pulse, to feel the hot, hammering cadence of his life under her tongue. Each open-mouthed kiss she bestows draws a groan from him, and they become distantly aware of the chair creaking beneath their movements.

Samson drags his nails down her back, hears the stress of the leather as her grip on the back of the chair tightens, giving her further leverage. Her pace becomes frantic as she loses the reins of control of her desire, and lets it take them both. Samson loves this part, loves when she begins to come apart and unravel in his arms. They chase desire’s loose threads to their source, and he holds her tightly to him, listening to her moans in his ear.

“That’s it, princess…” He encourages, unsure if control is in either of their hands, “Get us there…” And she does–Andraste’s tears she _does_. Hadiza leans back slightly, rocks her hips in such a way that Samson can see her dragging her clit along his stomach. He moves, trying to match her, find the base of his spine aching for mercy.

But whatever method she is using, works, because her cries rise in pitch and volume, her pace becomes erratic and frantic. She’s racing toward release, and she’s taking him along. In the end, he holds her close, pinning her hips down as he spends himself inside of her, shuddering with a groan from deep within his belly, the roll of thunder drowning out the sound of their panting.

She leans against him, loose-limbed and languorous. Sweat slicks her back, along with welts from the tracks his nails left, but she is replete, meeting him for a series of slow and languorous kisses, smiling at him heavy-lidded and indolent. Samson trails kisses along her jawline, whispers tender benedictions of his love to her, before returning to her mouth, to drink down her quiet and tired laughter.

“I suppose we found our answer.” He says with a smirk that holds a bit of that old mischief she has come to adore in him. Hadiza leans in against him, whispering something in his ear that makes him laugh, deep and long, before he kisses her again. They sit this way for some time, the cool air from the rain drying the sweat on both of their bodies.

Later, he carries her to bed, trading quips with her before realizing belatedly that their bedroom door is wide open and House Fayé will doubtless never let them hear the end of this for the rest of their stay.


	30. Beholder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

The mirror is rather large, spanning the length of the bathroom counter, polished until it offers a pristine view of the bathing chamber at her back.

Hadiza steps out of the bath, leaning over to wring out her waterlogged hair, and standing up and reaching for a towel. Samson watches her  from the doorway, still dressed, but out of his armor at least. Hadiza shoots him a smile, both as a greeting and an invitation, and he comes to her, watching her reach for cosmetics along the counter. Her skin glows, damp and soft in the light of the braziers around the room, and he reaches for her, watching her smile in their reflection in the mirror.

“You know,” he says, “I always imagined taking you right here, just like this.”

Hadiza laughs, uncapping a bottle of scented oil.

“Truly? What stopped you? Maker knows I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to do so.”

Samson’s fingers trace the edge of the towel, rising up, tickling the tender flesh beneath the curves of her buttocks.

“Nothing. Just wasn’t sure that you’d like it, is all.” He leans in, nuzzles her neck with his nose before placing a gentle, moist kiss there. Any other woman would feel dirty, being with him, but Hadiza smiles.

“Mm. Samson, I think you need to learn that I relish any opportunity to have you inside of me.” Her words are as casual and conversational as the weather and it’s that kind of talk that catches at the edges of his desire, and he feels a tightness in his balls that precedes the rush of blood to his groin, hot and heady, making him slightly light headed.

His fingers dip between her thighs.

“Is that so, princess?” His voice rumbles across her skin, and he feels her answering shiver. It feels him with a wicked delight, knowing the gathering moisture between her legs, along the tips of his questing fingers, is his doing. He watches her reflection with hooded eyes, watches her lips part on a soft gasp, then she drops her head as he parts her effortlessly with his middle finger, sliding it until it reaches the bottom knuckle. He can feel her around him, that tightening arousal, before she relaxes. He moves his finger in and out, making her swallow hard.

“Yes.” She whispers hotly as he undoes the towel, exposing her to the open air.

Samson has to admit, the sight of her nude and fresh from a bath is without peer. Her body is soft and pliant, svelte and smooth beneath his rough hands. He cups the lush weight of one of her breasts, rolls the dark bud of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making her mouth drop open in a moan.

“I like looking at you like this,” he tells her, sliding his hand down her belly, smirking like a wolf in the darkness as he feels her ribs expand in a deep breath. “You’d never think this is the woman who brought me so low.”

True and untrue. If there is anyone Samson will happily go on his knees for, it’s her. But not now. No, now, he wants her melting.

He withdraws his finger, leaving her empty and shuddering. Now, he turns his attentions to the arc of her throat, leaving tender kisses on her pulse, just beneath her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and nibbling. His other hand slides between her legs again.

“Open for me.” He whispers, watching her reflection as she spreads her legs for him. His fingers slide between the lips of her sex, trapping her clit between them. He idly strokes up and down, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp for breath. Her hips begin to move in a counter-rhythm, eager.

“Open your eyes, princess. I want you to see yourself.”

Hadiza’s eyes are a quicksilver snap of color in their reflection. And she sees herself, flushed with pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded, and Samson’s arm around her waist, his hand between her legs. She watches him as he nudges her head aside to suck at the dewy skin of her neck. The slide of his tongue turns her knees to water.

“Raleigh…” She whispers, her voice small and stripped, “Please…”

Samson halts everything, turns his gaze to the mirror, smiling.

“What?” He asks her. Hadiza watches her lips shape the words, hears her own voice speak them.

“Fuck me.”

Samson laughs, and she hears him tug at his breeches, stepping behind her. Hadiza feels the hot press of his cock against her thigh, feels the warm palm of his hand on her back, pushing her forward. He nudges her legs apart wider, gazing down at the profile of this woman who holds both his heart and his life in her hand.

This is the only way he can get her to surrender to him.

The first nudge of the blunt head of his cock at her entrance, he hisses. She’s wet and ready, and the slide is slick and easy. Still, it is not something one gets used to, being enveloped by hot, wet velvet like this. His hands go to her hips, pulling her back until the rotund curve of her rear is flush with his hips.

Hadiza thinks, in that moment, he will fuck her ruthlessly and have done with it. But he has learned the merit and value of patience, her Samson. He has the discipline of long hours of denial, of meditation, of prayer, and conviction.

Samson does not move, and instead, finds an easy grip in her hair, tugging her and forcing her to brace herself on her arms.

“Keep your eyes open, princess.” He tells her, and she shudders as his hips pull back, sliding out of her.

The first thrust makes Hadiza shut her eyes as she bites her lip on a moan, but Samson won’t let her. This isn’t like they’re out in the wilds, having to keep quiet at camp, his hand clamped over her mouth, his breath panting in her ear. They’re home…and he wants to hear her.

The pace Samson chooses is brutal, if only because he likes the look of her, back bowed, breasts bouncing with each clash of his hips against her ass, and her mouth open as she begins to cry out.

He pulls her back against him, his hand coming to her throat.

Hadiza watches their reflection with half her vision obscured by her hair. Samson is in her ear, now, whispering tender niceties, telling her how beautiful she looks just like this, how good her cunt feels around his cock. He tells her how badly he wants her, thinking about little else. She responds by thrusting her hips back against him.

The sight of them like this is enough to get him close. She moves like a dream in his arms, and he holds her steady with one arm around her waist, and a hand at her slender throat.

She’s close, he can hear it. The slap of his hips on her ass grows frantic, her cries change in pitch, choked off with each thrust, ending in yelps as her pleasure builds and builds.

Sweat beads on her skin, clean and salty, and he chases the path of it along her neck, ending in a whisper in her ear.

“Eyes open, princess,” he reminds her, “I want you to see yourself when you come.”

Hadiza struggles, even as his hand slides down between her legs, stroking the swollen bud of her clit. The pleasure becomes insurmountable, and she begins to shudder as the wave of her climax rushes over her. Hadiza watches herself come, watches as Samson grits his teeth and tightens his jaw against the sudden spasms of her cunt around him. He takes his pleasure in short, halting thrusts, burying himself within her as he comes.

Spent, Hadiza leans forward, Samson leaning onto her back. The counter is cold against her breasts, and Samson’s hands slide up her arms, filling the gaps between her fingers with his own. Their grip is trembling so soon after release, but firm.

When the trembling echo passes, and their strength returns, Samson carries her to bed. The sun has long since set, and her room is lit by lanterns, casting the room in a soft, golden glow. When they retire to bed, Hadiza stretches lazily, and this time, when desire swells within them both, there is no need to see their reflection.


	31. Tidal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extremely NSFW. Samson and Hadiza engage in some oral refreshers.

Samson swore he wouldn’t be nervous, but he was, and it showed in the way he held her with trembling hands, with the way his breath shivered out of him with each kiss. She conducted herself with a confidence of a woman who knew her own desire, and it took him by surprise when she invited him the second time.

Everything was off-kilter.

She stopped them, pulling back, her hair slightly dishevelled, her lips parted.

“Are you alright?” She asked softly. Samson stared at her, read the concern in her gaze, still bright with the fever of desire. He was not alright, but he wanted to be. He swallowed hard, sliding his gaze away from her.

“You’re very...” He couldn’t find the word, and so she supplied him with a soft whisper of her laughter. Even here, she sounded like magic.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sad smile, “I just...I’ve been told my enthusiasm can be...overwhelming. Perhaps I should ask: what do you want?”

Samson met her gaze again, skeptical. What manner of jest was this? She knew he was at her mercy, serving at her pleasure; what he wanted did not matter.

“Doesn’t much matter, does it?” He asked sullenly. Her brows knit in a subtle frown.

“We’ve been over this: I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t.”

Samson drew back, perplexed. Well, then.

Her laugh of surprise came when he suddenly spilled her onto her back on the softness of the bed. Her hair was a riot of curls along the soft cream of her duvet, and she sat up to see him kneeling before her.

She knew.

“Wait!” She cried. “You’re going to do that? Right now?”

Samson stared at her.

“You asked what I wanted, princess.” He said gruffly. “Might as well get my fill, eh?”

She let out a sound that was at once amused and strange. He frowned at her, grasping her ankles.

“Wait!” She said again, laughing. “Don’t rush into it. Can you...kiss me first?”

Samson groaned, feeling his cock tight against the laced seam of his breeches.

“For fuck’s sake...” He whispered to himself. “I’ve been kissing you all night, girl. There’s other parts of you I’d like to get my lips on, if you don’t mind.”

Why his surly response made her wet, she couldn’t say, but  she clamped her teeth around a squeak, and nodded. Samson slid his hands up the backs of her legs, parting them. Hadiza wiggled her hips to the edge of the bed. He turned his head, placing a wet kiss on one of her thighs, leading to a gentle bite. When Hadiza made a noise in response, he chuckled.

She watched him, her eyes heavy-lidded with lust, and he kissed a gentle path until, his breath was felt along the moist lips of her sex. Hadiza thought for a moment that he’d simply delve into the act, but Samson took his time when he realized he had it. He kissed along the hip bones, where her legs and pelvis met, smirking when she squirmed. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady.

He continued to avoid her sex, and eventually, Hadiza parted her legs wider, not bothering to hide what she wanted. And Samson still avoided it, kissing the little sensitive planes of skin along her thighs and hips, until she wa shivering.

And then he met her sex in an open-mouthed and indulgent kiss, tongue slithering along the entire moist length of it, until his lips closed around her clit and held it there.

Hadiza’s cry sent her tumbling onto her back, arching. Samson, feeling a relief in such an act, continued his slow assault, burying his nose and mouth in her sex, lapping at every fold, sucking hard on her clit. Hadiza writhed, letting out a stammering cry. Only then did Samson pull away, just enough that he could flick her clit with his tongue. Instead, he looked up at her, lips and chin shining with her slick.

“Look at me.” He told her and she sat up on quivering arms, looking down at him. “Do you want your companions to hear you?”

Hadiza almost shouted recklessly _yes_ , but shook her head, wordless. Samson’s breath felt cool against her swollen sex as he spoke.

“Then keep it down.” He murmured and returned to his work. Hadiza lifted her legs, seeking to give him unimpeded access, but he controlled her movements, leaving her weak with pleasure. She reached blindly, found one of the embroidered decorative pillows and put it over her face. Samson could hear her muffled moans, sounding like sobs, as she bit down on the pillow, rocking her body against his hold.

He lapped at her leisurely, delighting in the wash of slick along his tongue and chin, the feel of her heels drumming on his back as she sought to trap him. He made a sound of pleasure himself, and finally traveled lower, teasing the puckering bud of her other entrance with the tip of his tongue.

Hadiza threw the pillow and it landed with a thud across the room. She gasped openly, clawing at the duvet, desperate. Samson continued to tease that puckered entrance, shifting his grip to push her legs further back until she was nigh folded in half. He pushed his tongue inward, and could have smiled at her deep inhale, a gasp of a pleasure she didn’t realize she could feel.

Then she relaxed fully, letting him take full control. He alternated; lapping at the wet slit of her cunt, traveling down to tease along the puckered bud. He imagined how it would feel clamped around his cock and almost spent himself right there. Maker, it’d been too long, and his thoughts as his tongue pushed in and out of her, were only of how she’d look on her hands and knees, skewered around his cock.

When Hadiza came, it swelled like a tide in a storm, overshadowing them both, and then the wave broke over them, and Samson quickly placed his mouth on her cunt, wanting to feel it around his tongue as Hadiza writhed and screamed through her climax. Sweat glistened on her skin, making her dewy and enticing, and her limbs and body went slack in the aftermath, shivering from the touches of his lips. He kissed her sex gently, reverently, as if in gratitude. He was painfully hard, but he knew there’d be time to take his own pleasure yet. He reached down, stroked himself through her breeches.

Hadiza blinked, trying to right her vision.

“Oh...” She whispered, unable to conjure anything more coherent than that. Samson rose from his knees with a grimace. Hadiza sat up slowly, and her eyes were on his face.

“I didn’t think...” She murmured, her voice suffused with wonder, “No one’s ever done anything like that to me before.” Her eyes slid down, and she bit her lip at the sight of his cock’s outline through his trousers. She licked her lips and Samson could have wept.

Hadiza reached forward, tugging at the drawstring, then tugged at the waistband to pull him close. Samson swallowed, watching her as she unlaced them, freeing his cock.

“Mm.” Hadiza murmured as it sprang free, engorged and fevered as she wrapped her fingers around it. Her thumb swiped at the head, smearing it with the drop of moisture from the tip. Samson’s knees turned to water.

“Maker’s Blood...” He whispered, turning his face toward the ceiling. Hadiza leaned in, and then slid off the bed to her knees, tilting her head to take the heavy flesh of his balls into her mouth. Samson wanted to steady himself but found nothing, and planted his feet hoping he didn’t collapse. The sight of her on her knees, licking at the length of his cock, sucking at his heavy sac, and then finally enveloping him in the hot, wet velvet of her mouth...it was almost too much.

Hadiza sucked him with enthusiasm, reaching to grasp his hips as she bobbed along his length, cheeks hollowing with each push and pull. Samson’s hand went to touch her head affectionately, resisting the urge to grip her hair and thrust violently into her mouth and throat. He watched her work him from root to tip, watched as her eyes shut in private bliss, watched those lips part and pull around him.

“Andraste’s Tears...I’m going to...” Samson tipped his head back, unable to fight the rising tide in his blood. Between the thoughts of burying his cock in the soft and tight pucker of her rear, and the sight and feel of her sucking at his cock like this, it was too much. He gripped the back of her head and held her, spending himself as hot spurts of his seed coated her tongue and throat. Hadiza swallowed rudely, cupping his balls and kneading them with one hand. Samson nearly collapsed again, and carefully extricated her when she sucked the last drop from him, making him shout out a curse she’d never heard before.

Later, they lay in silence, his cock tucked away, and her wrapped in a robe.

“You’re really something, princess.” He said tiredly, “How the hell did you not exhaust everyone you’ve been with?”

Hadiza laughed. “I never got to do this kind of thing in the Circle very often. I suppose I’m making up for lost time...”

Samson sighed. “Maker’s shitting Breath...that’s a hell of a way to go about it.”

Hadiza pinched his side. “Are you disappointed?” She asked. Samson laughed.

“Far from it.” He said, “I just don’t know if I’ll always be able to keep up...”

Hadiza leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“You’ll adapt,” she said in a voice that felt like it had been pulled from between her thighs, “or you’ll endure.”

Samson couldn’t say why that filled him to the brim with desire and somewhat more tender, but it did. And this time, when he reached for her, he didn’t tremble.


	32. Prelude to an Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after _Post Tenebras Lux_ , a prelude to the oath Samson swore to Hadiza in _Maledictus_.

The second night he spent in her chambers, they talked.

Well, she talked, and he listened, watching her. She seemed so at ease in his presence, smiling with a fond and easy confidence he could not bring himself to feel laying with her thusly. It seemed much easier when he tumbled her earlier, listening to her whisper all manner of pleading obscenities in his ear, all of which he obliged. But this…this was different.

“What will you do,” he asked, trying to will the confidence into his voice, “now that your enemy is vanquished?”

Hadiza smiled as if she knew something he did not.

“I was thinking of getting rich off the Inquisition, and growing fat and lazy and retiring to the country.” She said but her grin gave her away. Samson smiled despite himself.

“It’s a good plan, if you ask me.” He chuckled, “It’s what I’d do at any rate.”

Hadiza rolled onto her belly, pillowing her chin on her arms. Her expression turned serious, thoughtful as her brow furrowed, silver eyes distant.

“In truth,” she said softly, “I don’t know. Corypheus and his allies caused a lot of turmoil before I was able to stop them. I have to finish what I started. Orlais is severely weakened by their civil war and aiding me in the Wilds. Ferelden…ah…well. You know.”

Samson did know. He’d marched across much of Southern Thedas causing the turmoil Hadiza spoke of. It was a shame he would bear for the rest of his days. He wanted to reach out to touch her, but the specter of his crimes lay between them, not buried deep enough for him to be that bold. He was afraid she would recoil from him in that moment.

“Will you help me?” Hadiza asked suddenly, breaking the pensive silence.

Samson blinked.

“With what, my lady?” He asked tentatively. Hadiza rolled onto her side again.

“Fix things.” She said simply. “I can’t do this alone and…well…since I sentenced you to serve the Inquisition forever…”

Samson smiled wryly. “Then there’s no need to ask.”

He’d serve her…sentence or no.

Hadiza smiled. “I suppose not. But it seemed rude not to.”

Samson stared at her for perhaps the first time. His mouth opened then closed. And then he laughed. He laughed hard, from the belly, rolling onto his back, tossing his arm over his eyes. Hadiza stared back, wide-eyed, curious as to what had struck him so.

“Maker’s Balls!” He cried, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Just when I thought…you…” He laughed again. “Maker! You’re a funny one, Hadiza Trevelyan, I’ll give you that.”

Hadiza sat up, frowning, disliking being laughed at.

“ _What_?” She asked sharply, “What, pray tell, is so funny?”

Samson looked up at her, at her smooth face, her furrowed brow, and the sharp glare of her eyes, the firm line of her mouth.

“I am your prisoner, aren’t I?” Samson asked and Hadiza huffed out an impetuous breath.

“Yes, for a year and day, as I said.” She said, “What’s so funny about all that?”

Samson grinned, toothy and smug.

“As your prisoner, do you really think you need to ask me if I want to do something in service to the Inquisition?”

Hadiza thought about it, rolling her eyes upward and thinking. Samson watched her, still smiling, laughter still stirring in his chest. Maker’s Blood, she was serious!

“Yes.” She said at last. “Because there are other things you could be doing. You need not be attached to my side.”

Samson’s gaze sharpened and he sat up, finding his confidence, reaching for her to brush an errant lock of hair from her face.

“Of course I do,” he said with a smile, “ _someone’s_ got to protect you.”

Hadiza flushed, biting her lip at the thought. No one had ever offered her such a thing before. Samson’s thumb stroked her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.

“I cannot ask that of you, Samson,” she said softly, “not now.”

“You don’t have to, my lady.” He told her, and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze. Gone was the laughter, the tickled mirth, replaced by something deeper, something Hadiza recognized but had no name for. It was both yearning and somewhat else. It was tender and fierce all in the same scintillating turn. She took a deep, shuddering breath to steady her pulse, and then she went to him, and he folded her into his arms easily.

Samson realized, for the second night in a row, that she still fit.


	33. Wickless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza has a request. Slightly NSFW.

“How do you do that?” Hadiza asks him, trailing her fingertips along his throat, which bobs in a hard swallow. Samson blinks at her, feeling rooted to the spot beneath her gaze.

“Do what, Inquisitor?” He asks and from the hardness in her eyes he knows he’s struck a nerve. He only address her by her title in public, but she insists he call her by her name when it is only the two of them.

“It has ever been a mystery whether templars draw their power from lyrium or if it is something that comes from deep within themselves,” she says simply, “but I’ve never had a templar use their abilities against me. How do you do it?”

Samson recalls the life of another man–a _better_  man–remembering the hours of intensive study. Peeling apart the mechanics of magic like stripping skin from fruit, he learned to understand how his abilities worked, but whether it was the lyrium or his own innate talent that fueled them was a debate amongst the scholars far more well-read than he ever hoped to be.

Samson shrugs.

“I’m not sure,” he says, “I just do it. Not sure if I still can, actually.”

Hadiza smiles, and Samson feels the blade of his disdain wrenched from him. Her smile is better than a sunrise, because unlike the sunrise, it is only for him–because of him.

“Will you show me?” She asks, splaying her fingers along his chest. Samson thinks if she can’t hear his heart hammering like a fist against his ribs then either he’s mad or she is. Nonetheless, the blood drains from his face.

“Why the hell would you want me to do that?” He demands, genuinely concerned that perhaps his Inquisitor is a bit touched in the head. Hadiza tilts her head.

“Call it morbid curiosity.” She replies casually, “I am well-read on the full skillset of a templar, and I do know some of your…mana-draining abilities are more brutal than others.” She eyes him slyly, “Are you afraid of hurting me?”

_Yes_. Samson thinks. He’s afraid of doing something that will upset her, hurt her, make her hide the light of herself from him forever. But Hadiza always sees him, perceptive woman that she is, and she reaches up, cups his cheek.

“I’m here.” She says, “And you and I both know magic is not my only defense.”

Samson frowns.

“You’re…” He says, “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do, Hadiza.” Her name anchors him to the ground, her hand on his cheek is soft, scented like an unnamed blossom, fresh and cool.

He shuts his eyes against the sight of her, breathes deep, and gathers his power. His bones feel dry and brittle, his body feel tight with the effort, but he is pleased with how easy it is even after all this time. He slips into that between-place with his senses as he’s been taught, and can feel it. Hadiza is a singularity in his mind, a curvy, beautiful singularity around which the magic gathers, bright and fervent like life’s blood. She is electric and dizzying, like a rain storm, and he can feel the tingle of her power thrumming all along his skin and senses.

Maker help him, he never realized how powerful she truly was until now. He doesn’t even think _she_ realizes it.

When Samson opens his eyes, he hears her slight gasp, watches her lips part and her eyes go a little wide. He knows what she sees: that little electric thrum of blue in his eyes from the oncoming spell.

In his mind, he sees an open hand, translucent and waiting. He closes this hand around the bright and burning magic that gathers around Hadiza…and squeezes.

Always, when magic is drained from the area, Samson feels an indolent and waiting emptiness in its place. He–like other templars–has become so accustomed to the pressure of magic on all sides as the Fade is omnipresent, that to suddenly be void of it is just as jarring to him as it is to a mage.

Hadiza lets out a distressed sound, staggering backward. She sits heavily on the edge of her bed with a cry. Samson knows she feels the smothering all along her skin, seeping into her blood. Her mana well is barred from her, and whatever power she gathered is snuffed out like a candle, with not even a redolent scent or residue left behind. Samson feels as if he has rendered a goddess unerringly mortal, and immediately regrets it.

Hadiza is wide-eyed and clearly unnerved, her hands clutching and unclutching frantically.

“How…?” She whispers, incredulous. It dawns on Samson that Hadiza is utterly and completely vulnerable, now. Without her magic, she has only physical prowess, but he knows even now he can best her. He can end the Inquisition’s march with a single strike. He can hurt her, kill her, maim her. Because she trusts him not to; because she asked him to drain her magic.

Samson doesn’t move, watching her, waiting to see if she banishes him for his transgression like a goddess casting a blasphemer from her divine presence. He suddenly wishes to go to his knees, beg her forgiveness, kiss her feet and tell her how he didn’t mean to do it, that he only wishes to please her.

Hadiza looks up, her gaze clear and bewildered.

“So…” She murmurs, “That’s what it’s like…” Samson swallows again. Even without her magic there is something in her that frightens him. She gestures to him to come to her and he does, unthinking, and goes to his knees before her.

“Did you enjoy that?” She asks him, tracing the strong line of his brow with a thumb. Samson wants to tell her no, but he realizes he’d be lying. He enjoyed it, more than he should have. He enjoyed having some sort of power over her, seeing her vulnerable because of him. In the same turn, he also desires to protect her in this state, to be her shield when she is stripped of her own. It is this dichotomy that renders him silent.

“I understand if you don’t want to answer,” she says, amused, “I have a feeling what the answer is, at any rate.” She leans in, her lips close enough that he can share her sweet breath, can likely dart his tongue out to run it over the soft, lush petal of her lower lip. He wants to kiss her, yearns toward her even as she does toward him. Their lips meet and he feels relief wash over him. With no magic thrumming through her, kissing her is indulgent and slow and his hands go to her thighs, then her waist. And as the kiss deepens, he feels something in his heart loosen.

Later, they lay naked atop the bed covers, Hadiza’s leg thrown carelessly over his body. He can feel the heat of her cunt, tender and swollen, against his skin, and for a moment Samson wants to reach down and stroke it in some semblance of apology…and then he thinks about how she tastes, and promises he will wake her with an open-mouthed kiss and soothe this nights hurts with his lips and tongue. He doesn’t regret his treatment of her, though; doesn’t regret his hard and desperate grip on her thighs, the forceful way she moved across the bed with each pump of his hips, the way her hands clawed for purchase on her carven headboard as she squeezed her lungs for desperate gasps of air. Thinking on what has transpired, he regrets nothing of the rush of wet heat as she came, the violent shudder that followed as she clung to him for safety, security, and her life. He certainly doesn’t regret watching her move with lissome grace atop him, breasts heaving with every crest and trough of their bodies.

She begged him for it, and the corporeal cues of her pleasured responses are carved now in the strong muscles of his back and shoulders. Her magic returns steadily, a growing warmth like the sun roving across the sky. Samson feels as if the world is stitching and mending a tear, or an ewer is being refilled. Hadiza sighs deeply, welcoming the return of her mana with a tired smile.

Samson wonders not for the first time, how someone so gentle can mask that much fire and passion beneath her skin. Hadiza tosses her head, moving the heavy weight of her hair over one shoulder. He shifts carefully, leaning in because he wants something from her for once.

Hadiza watches him, and then relinquishes the kiss he wants.

“Did I hurt you?” She asks and Samson laughs.

He has the answer to his question.


	34. Do Not Shy From This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson explains some things.

It happens sometimes, of course it does. People seeing them together, attempting to make connections, speculating, wondering. Her beauty is rich and sultry, and she stands out in a crowd. He looks…well, as if life has used him harshly. And it has! He will tell them that life has been decidedly unkind to him. But as she makes her way through the crowd, garbed in silk and velvet, looking every inch the lady, he will also say that life does not always deal an unfair hand.

But the questions come, regardless. Those, too young or sheltered to know the weight of the identity he once wore, are swept away by the romance of the tale. A man–a knight–fallen from grace, seeking vengeance, aiming the sword of his black rage at the heart of all that is considered right in the world. A lady, a mage–no, a _sorceress_ –who stands in his way, a shield around a vulnerable land wracked with fear and uncertainty. A battle in a sun-dappled glade. Defeat, shame, and weariness. He leaves out the painful parts, the parts where he remembers being curled on his side, wracked with fever, wounded by abusive hands seeking to exact their own vengeance upon him. He leaves out the fever dreams, the look of sympathy in her eyes, and unwanted–unasked for–kindness she deals him like a blow.

But he speaks of her. Yes, he tells them about how in the moments where he deserved nothing, she gave him the one thing he never thought to have again: hope. A chance for redemption. They are fascinated. He’s distracted; she’s laughing, her face in profile, the delicate curls of her hair shaking with the mirth. It’s a sound he will never tire of hearing.

_But what happened after?_

He smiles, tells them about her exploits, but he does not tell them of the in-between moments, the twilight moments. Her, in tears, mourning the loss of the Grey Wardens, a weighted chain of guilt on her soul. He does not tell them of the nights where he can see the mask of her station stripped away, and the naked, vulnerable fear in her. Fear of failing the people who look to her as a savior, fear of losing anymore good men to the violence of war and chaos.

Fear of succumbing to temptation.

No, he tells them instead of her courage, and how she pulled others with her like a strong current, himself included. He does not tell them of the night he spent on his knees before the effigy of Andraste, silent and pensive. One woman demanded his piety and unswerving devotion, yet she held no answers for his ultimate salvation. She was too cold and distant for him to place his hope in her cold, stone hands.

The other simply asked that he live. Live, that he might set things right, as he was meant to. _She_ was there, in the flesh, and though she did not demand it, he felt compelled to offer it up to her all the same, a sacrifice on the altar of something far greater; of something that he knew was so much more than mere loyalty.

He does not tell them of his choice. He tells them only of the battles they fought, of the closeness they shared in and out of danger, of how he came to love all that she was. He does not tell them of her transgression, of nearly straining the limits of his vows and his oath to her, of his lying to her…and himself. Of nearly ruining what they built with mistrust and faltering feelings.

But he tells them how they emerged stronger than before, and he found his faith in the world around them, in the curve of her smile, and the softness of her eyes.

 _You sound like a man well and truly besotted._ Someone muses. He smiles, shrugs helplessly. It is not a truth he shies from, nor will he ever.

He has spent far too long shying from the truth.


	35. Open Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza explains some things too.

"I have always wondered,” Djeneba asks one dewy evening, “what drew you to Ser Templar specifically.”

Hadiza is curled on a divan, clad only in an _abaya_ , her hair braided over one shoulder. Her expression is neutral, but she smiles at the question, sipping a glass of cordial thoughtfully.

“Do you need to wonder, auntie?” She asks, “Or do you want to hear _my_ reasoning, and not what you yourself have ventured to guess?”

Djeneba laughs, a sound redolent of the smoke of incense.

“I suppose I should learn not to mince words with the woman who boasts her own network of spies.” She says, her voice infused with mirth, “Very well then: I want to hear your reasoning.”

Hadiza glances out into the gloaming. Beyond the open-air pavilion, the garden is fragrant with jasmine and hibiscus blooms, mingling with the soft spice of healing herbs, and the clean scent of elfroot. She tilts her head, her face illuminated by the flicker of torchlight.

“It is not something one can distill into simple words,” she says softly, “I have spoken to him at length about this…and it’s…” She laughs, remembering a private moment.

After a while, she spreads her hands.

“Auntie, there is no simple answer, nor is there only one answer. I know only that I do. It’s not often one gets struck with this kind of love.”

Djeneba nods. “No, it isn’t. I suppose I merely asked because I was curious. The way you two…look at one another. It is as if the line betwixt mage and templar does not exist.”

Hadiza sobers a little. There is a wealth of history and hurt in her aunt’s words. Rivain bears no love for the Chantry nor its army of templars. The romantic notions of mages and templars finding some forbidden romance in the Circle is hardly romantic here in her ancestral homeland. If anything, Hadiza is made keenly aware of just how abhorrent her romance is to her mother’s family. She takes a deep breath, sighing.

“To us, it doesn’t,” she says, “not in the sense of power and authority. I am not his charge, and he is not my jailer. We are not defined by the roles of templar and mage, not any longer.” She nurses the cordial in her hand, draining its dregs. “He has never truly had the opportunity to be aught but what the Chantry made him, and nor have I. So to us, we write our own rules. He protects, as is his wont, and the nature of the vows he’s sworn. In turn, I use my power to serve people who have need of it.”

Hadiza smiles, coy, and adds, “And occasionally, serve my own needs.”

Djeneba nods. “I see. And you don’t…you don’t worry he might…?”

Hadiza’s brows raise. “That he might fall back on old training and treat me like a snake that’s wandered indoors? Auntie, you were here for the worst of it. Did I not tell you the promise he made to me years ago?”

Djeneba shakes her head.

“When I was hunting Corypheus,” Hadiza says, “I needed to delve into magic I’d never used before. But I couldn’t trust any templar to oversee me in case I was compromised. Samson was perfect. He bore no love for the Inquisition, nor for me. I knew that if ever in my endeavor that I became beyond saving, he would be able to kill me without hesitating.”

The blood drains from her aunt’s face. Hadiza holds her gaze steady, silver eyes brilliant in the deepening darkness.

“He promised you this?” Djeneba whispers fearfully. Hadiza nods.

“I asked it of him.” She says. “But that’s not why I love him.”

Djeneba’s brows knit in a frown. “I was going to say…passing strange way of discovering such a thing.”

Hadiza smiles wryly.

“Indeed. But no, auntie. Were it not for that, I never would have become possessed and made my way to your doorstep. And even then, he went against all that he stood for, all that he’d been trained for, and stood by my side. He refused to kill me.”

Djeneba’s frown turns into one of sympathy. It is a painful memory for them both, but none more so than Hadiza herself. That she has distanced herself from it enough to speak of it, now, is a marvel.

“And when it was over,” Hadiza continues, “when I was free of it…we found our way again. Slowly. You see, Samson is…loyal and very dedicated. Like him, I’d committed an egregious sin. But we understand one another’s actions. But we do not condone them.”

“You let a demon ride you to save his life.” Djeneba said softly.

Hadiza nods. “Even so. Samson would have rather bled out in that courtyard than watch me become the very thing he was trained to kill.”

Djeneba nods.

“I understand. You two are…”

Hadiza’s gaze is still steady, but there is a well of gravity in it, something deep and unknowable to any who did not bear witness to her bloody transformation in those uncertain days. Djeneba does not need to use her seer’s gifts to see that the love that is at once maddening and consuming, has been tempered with the passage of time. She smiles, finding the answer she seeks.

“I understand, Hadiza,” she says, “and while I cannot fathom loving someone who represents an institution that seeks only the eradication of my kind…I can understand your circumstances.”

Hadiza laughs. “With all due respect, auntie, we do not need anyone else to understand us, nor would we ask them to.”

Djeneba raises a brow, but Hadiza does not break her gaze.

“I can see that.” She says mildly. “Even so, cherish the time you two have together. That kind of love comes but seldom.”

Hadiza watches her aunt rise and go, bidding her goodnight.


	36. To Serve & Protect

“Princess, where’s my other vambrace?”

He pokes his head in carefully, sees his wife bent over what appears to be a metal construct of some kind. The chestplate is split open, and there’s a faint blue glow within it. Lyrium. For a moment, Samson swallows hard against the ghost of a thirst that will never leave him. Then he focuses.

“It should be in the trunk with the rest of your armor,” Hadiza answers absently, her face obscured by a protective mask as she lifts a vial of glowing blue liquid for inspection.

“Well it’s not there,” he says, “you shifting things around again?”

Hadiza’s expressions are hidden and she sets the vial down carefully.

“Not at all,” she says, “at least…not recently. Have you checked _my_ trunk? We were in kind of a hurry during our last mission.”

Samson frowns, wondering why his damned armor would get mixed in with her things, but he departs, muttering to himself. Hadiza’s trunk is in their bedroom. Contrary to her usual style, it is simplistic in appearance, bound by what appears to be a simple lock. Samson knows better, however, and channels his strength, nullifying the protective ward around the lock to get it open safely.

He would say one of the benefits to marrying a mage was he was able to keep his templar abilities well-honed.

Hadiza’s trunk opens soundlessly, and the smell of jasmine wafts from within. He smiles, and carefully goes through the various clothing and other items: field journals, sketchbooks, empty healing potion vials, lyrium potions that make him shudder to touch them, and a belt of pouches with various alchemical herbs and ingredients for crafting on the go. At the bottom of the trunk he finds a glint of steel, sees his missing vambrace and pulls it from the trunk. Knowing she’ll have his hide, he carefully replaces her belongings as he found them, and returns to the task of polishing his armor.

Hadiza’s armor is on a stand next to his, her false arm missing–she’s wearing it for lab work. He wonders if she’ll notice he’s polished hers as well, but he doubts it. She’s consumed with her teaching now that they’re home.

She comes to him later, when the sun is low and the stars begin to show in the deepening evening sky. Her abaya is a bit rumpled, and she looks weary.

“Any breakthroughs?” He asks, helping her out of her harness. She reaches to rub the raw flesh at the stump of her elbow.

“None yet,” she says tiredly, “I don’t want to have to go back to the Deep Roads to find out more, but…I have come to a blind alley, here, I think. Any answers I seek lie ultimately beneath Thedas.”

Samson shudders to think on it. The Deep Roads are far too ancient and vast for her to brave for curiosity’s sake.

“You want my advice, princess?” He asks her and she meets his gaze, open and curious. “Don’t chase that thread to its source. Some mysteries aren’t meant for us to go poking about. Let it rest.”

Hadiza frowns. “But–”

Samson sighs. “Hadiza, the last time you went into the Deep Roads, you almost died. The place is crawling with darkspawn most of the time and…”

Hadiza’s frown of displeasure becomes one of sympathy. He’s afraid.

“Alright.” She says softly, “I won’t go. I’ll send a message to Dagna–wherever she may be–and see if she can put me in touch with any connections in Orzammar. Will that suffice?”

Samson grasps her shoulders.

“Promise you won’t go skipping down there…not without an army at your back, at least.”

She smiles at him, half-hearted.

“I promise.” She says. “Did you find your vambrace?”

“At the bottom of your Maker bedamned trunk. How’d it get in there of all places?” He watches her peel out of her abaya, watches the delicate silk whisper to the floor to pool around her feet. She steps out of it deftly, reaching to fetch it and hang it on the back of a chair. Samson watches her while her back is turned.

“Told you,” she says, unlacing her breast band, “we were in a hurry. Must have tossed it in there with my things.”

Samson shakes his head, watches with an amused smile as her breast band joins the abaya on the back of the chair. She strips out of her smalls, tossing them at him playfully before she heads to their bathing chamber. Samson smirks, begins to undress and follow.

She’s already pulling the lever for bath water to fill their tub from the cistern on their roof. The runes are blazing along the tub’s inner wall, heating the water until steam fills the chamber.

They bathe together, a simple pleasure they enjoy when they’ve the time and energy. Samson sinks with a groan into the water, feels the ache of his back and knees ebb. Hadiza settles herself across from him, dipping backward to soak her hair. Samson smiles at her through the steam.

“You really don’t want me to go to the Deep Roads, do you?” She asks, slightly amused. Samson runs his hands over his face, wearily.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, princess, it’s that you’re going to do what you set your mind to. But in this? After what happened before; no, I don’t want you going down there. Not unless you can summon an army to rival the darkspawn and other dangers crawling around in those forsaken caverns.”

Hadiza tilts her head slightly.

“What if I enlist the aid of the Legion? Would that please you?”

“Hadiza please don’t go down there. Every time you put your life on the line it shaves years off my life!”

Hadiza frowns. “So you would hobble my research because you’re afraid you can’t protect me. Samson I can protect myself.”

“You can only cast so much magic, Hadiza. For fuck’s sake I’m the _last_ person who will doubt your skill. I’ve seen the incredible things you can do; but in this can you just listen? Just…for both our sakes…let this curiosity fuck off somewhere.”

Hadiza is silent a moment, pale eyes distant and pensive. Samson sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “shit. I just…I am not about to lose you to a fucking ogre.”

“Then come with me.” She says. Samson makes a noise of incredulity.

“To the fucking Deep Roads? What’s up your ass that you feel so compelled to go? You a Warden, now?”

Hadiza laughs. “I just…there’s so much we don’t know about this world we inhabit, about the world as it was before.”

She doesn’t have to say it but they’re both thinking of it. Solas’ revelation to Hadiza has ignited in her a curiosity beyond Samson’s ability to temper or quell.

“You’re trying to unravel the other end of the mystery, eh?” Samson asks. “What do you expect to find there?”

Hadiza shrugs. “The titans’ blood is lyrium,” she tells him, “and you quit–truly quit–after that was revealed to us. But Solas created the Veil, which has had devastating repercussions ever since. The Deep Roads have been around for longer than written history has been kept, I think.”

Samson can’t help it, but damnit he’s curious too.

“Princess,” he says softly, shifting as she comes to him, settles between his legs, “if you go, there’s a high probability you won’t come back. Not for a long while. And that’s what worries me.”

Hadiza bites her lip and nods wordlessly.

“But if this is what you want then we have to plan for it. A Deep Roads expedition isn’t something you just decide to do on a whim. We’ll need guides, maps, provisions, weapons and armor that can actually withstand darkspawn attacks. Hell, maybe a Warden or two on the way to do that thing Blackwall was on about.”

“The Calling.” Hadiza says. Samson nods.

“Right. That. How soon do you want to do this?”

Hadiza thinks. The Deep Roads hold secrets–have always held secrets since the time before the First Blight–but there is another, more pressing concern.

“After we complete our mission in Tevinter.” She says quietly.

Samson gives her shoulders a squeeze.

“Alright, then,” he says, “when we’re done rallying up Tevinter, we’ll go trying to get ourselves killed underground, eh? Kind of looking forward to it. Should have been a Warden.”

Hadiza nudges him. “Don’t jest like that.”

Samson laughs. “I’m sorry, princess. Just a thought. Wardens value everyone who comes to join, is all.”

Hadiza is quiet. “Do you think…do you think things might have been different had you become a Warden and not a templar?”

Samson thinks, wonders at the differences betwixt the two organizations. He would still be a protector, but only truly needed when darkspawn were about. As a templar he was a protector and he was respected…until he was no longer that. As a Grey Warden, there was no way to take that from him, if Blackwall was to be believed.

“Well,” he says, “obviously, I suppose. Never was good for much else other than wielding a sword, I guess. Just trading in abominations and blood mages for darkspawn. Trading in the Chant for my own code. Might have been nicer.”

“And lonely.” Hadiza says, “Wardens always seem so insular.”

“Can’t say I blame ‘em, having the burden of stopping Blights on their shoulders like that. But they take in all types of people it looks like. Mages, disgraced knights, pretenders, criminals. I’d fit right in.” He idly runs his fingers through her hair. The water is still steaming and warm. He gives her torso a tender squeeze with his thighs.

“Might not have met you, though,” he says, “but then again, you fought the Wardens too, eh? So I guess it wouldn’t have mattered. Our paths would have crossed eventually.”

Hadiza shakes her head, remembering. Samson, feeling foolish, remembers too.

“Shit.” He says, “Didn’t mean to go digging up rotten bones, princess. You alright?”

She nods. “It’s fine. Just…I think I’m learning to live with it on my conscience.”

Samson understand that all too well.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I might have thrown myself to serve you, Warden or templar.”

Hadiza nudges him again, making him laugh, but he sees the smile lift the corner of her mouth and considers it a joke well-spent.


	37. Raindrops Against the Glass

“Raleigh?” Hadiza’s voice is soft on the edges, sated, her pale eyes blurred with pleasure. Samson makes a murmuring sound in response, his arm around her shoulders. The rain taps against their rooftop, against the glass, endless fingertips drumming on the shield around the life they’ve built together, insistent but soft.

“When did you know?” She asks him and he laughs immediately. It’s been years, but she’s never asked him before. He had begun to wonder if she ever would.

“Do you remember the first year after my sentencing? When you dragged me across half of Thedas to clean up my mess?” He basks in her quiet laughter.

“You were so grouchy in the Fallow Mire,” she says, “ and terrible company. But you did your job, at least.”

“Aye,” Samson agrees, “not that I had much choice, mind. But I watched you in those days, princess. You fought with clarity, gave orders like a real commander, and never endangered the lives of any of us unnecessarily. And if danger was the order of the day, you went in first. Never shied from helping.”

Hadiza’s cheeks flush.

“Got all that from me pummeling rogue demons, did you?” She asks coyly. Samson takes a lock of her hair between his fingers, tugs playfully.

“Mm. I did. I didn’t really know you, despite our…relationship at the time. I still thought you a bit…green. But you were damned skillful. And you weren’t too proud to trust your companions to do their jobs.”

Hadiza sits up to look down at him.

“That’s well and good, but what’s this got to do with you falling in love with me?” She asks, her brow knit in confusion. Samson delivers a light slap to her rear, making her yelp.

“Patience, princess, I’m getting to that.” He admonishes, his smile tender. “Well, one day, you took on a terror demon. Blew the bastard to bits you and the Iron Lady did. And then…I don’t know. I just knew. You were standing there, covered from head to toe in demon guts, hand glowing like a torch, and you never dropped your blade.”

Samson smiles.

“And then you looked at me, smiled, and asked if I was alright. And I knew.”

Hadiza scoffs. “You jest!” She cries. “I was filthy and that’s how you knew?”

Samson shrugs. “You asked, princess. I can’t explain it.” He reaches up, strokes the curve of her cheek, the sleek line of her jaw. His expression softens.

“I could tell you a million and one reasons and moments, Hadiza,” he watches her stir and focus at the pull of her name, “but you’ve a big enough head as is. Aside, I’d be a fool not to love you.”

Hadiza smiles, slightly smug.

“True.” She tosses her disheveled hair. “I _am_ quite the catch.”

Samson pinches her side in response.

“How did you know?” He asks, his voice quiet, tremulous. He’s afraid, even now, even here, where they have painstakingly built around themselves a place of peace, of love, of solitude, and even worship. Hadiza cocks her head, and he knows all of her memories are surfacing, bubbled moments of joy, pain, and confusion.

“You know…” She murmurs, her voice rife with wonder, “I…I think it was the first time you kissed me.”

“No.” Samson says, incredulous.

“I didn’t _want_ to believe, then.” Hadiza amends, “But when you kissed me something felt right. Something fit. I wanted to come apart and together all at the same time. My heart was…I just…it was a very good kiss.”

Samson smirks. “Oh? You flatter me, princess. But it was early, yet. How could you have known?”

Hadiza shakes her head and shrugs.

“I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until you shielded me during that fight, and pulled me away from temptation that I knew. But I was terrified of what it might mean if I told you.”

Samson sits up, leans back against the headboard.

“Can’t imagine why.”

Hadiza meets his eyes, her expression vulnerable, as open as a wound.

“If you didn’t feel the same way, it would have hurt. Not my pride, but my heart, I think. Because everything felt right to me. It’s why I asked you to stay.”

Samson spreads his arms. “And here I am, still. At your bidding, princess.”

Hadiza laughs, crawling into his lap. Desire stirs in their blood like rising heat, and she kisses him, relishing the feels of his rough hands smoothing up her back.

“So.” Samson says against her mouth. “Now you know. Satisfied?”

Hadiza smiles. “Not yet. Are you?”

Samson shifts beneath her, and she yelps, adjusting to let him slide inside of her. She shivers in his arms, settling with a groan.

“Not yet.” He murmurs, kissing her again.

The rain grows louder.


	38. This Is Who We Are

One the days when words fail her, he becomes the safe harbor. It is not that he is never thus, but there are days when she needs him more than usual. He catches the signs of the coming storm, watching her stand naked before her mirror, staring at her reflection. He knows and does not know what she sees: seven eyes blinking out from her reflected face, mayhap; horns spiraling from her head, a fanged grin too wide for her face.

He knows and does not know.

And so on those days, he is there, waiting. She doesn’t bother with her harness, leaves the false harm lifeless on the table, content to see herself as she is. She frowns at her reflection, cocks her head as if listening to some distant song only she can hear.

And then she fidgets, rubbing at the raw, twisted flesh of her wound, tracing the silvered scars along her torso. He knows she is learning herself…learning to _live_ with herself, and so he waits.

And then she comes to him. He folds her in his embrace wordlessly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and she curls into his side, the full of her thoughts turned inward.

Hadiza thinks on the days where she almost lost him. Of a vast chasm of guilt and shame neither of them could cross but for foolish pride. She stares at her reflection for hours, wishing and wondering, hoping and despairing. And when she is finished tearing her spirit to pieces and putting it together again, she sighs. She lets it go, and she turns to him.

There are no words to encompass what it means to her to have him there, to feel the strong and steady beat of his heart, to feel the surety of his breath expanding in his chest, to smell _life_ on him. She cannot articulate anything to him and so she curls into his embrace and shuts her eyes.

On the days words fail her, the silence is enough.


	39. Sunlight Through the Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final moment. Spoilers for the ending of _Maledictus_

Some days are easier, and he recalls moments of their life with clarity. He’ll smile at her, crooked and affectionate, and she’ll kiss his wrinkled brow, laughing. His hands tremble when he holds her face, and he looks at her with rheumy eyes.

“You’re going to be beautiful forever.” He says, “Still wasting it on an old man like me.”

And she laughs again and kisses him all over his face.

Some days are harder.

She finds him standing in their garden, his face a knot of confusion. She calls him back with his name and he turns, looks upon her as if seeing her for the first time.

“What is this place?” He asks, “And where’s the knight-commander?”

She tells him that this is his home, and he watches her with fascination and incredulity, as if he cannot quite believe his damnable luck.

“And you?” He presses, gesturing to her, “You’re the mage sent to care for me now that I’m no good to the Order, eh?”

She looks sad, and he wonders why, but he goes with her willingly, back into the house. He wonders why the sight of her turns his heart upside down.

And then some days are unchanging.

“What happened to your arm, girl?” He asks her, watching her chop vegetables one evening to prepare the meal for them both. She sighs.

“Someone took it.” Is all she says, “And I would have bled to death had you not found me in time.”

He’s surprised. “Me? I found you? What happened to the bastard who took your arm? I killed him, I hope.” A smile. Even now, he still wants to be a hero to someone. She looks over her shoulder at him.

“He’s still out there,” she tells him, “planning unspeakable evil.”

Her knight in red nods, watching as she swipes the minced vegetables into the simmering oil in the cooking pot. Immediately the spiced aroma of searing vegetables fills the kitchen, tickling his nose and throat.

“Who are you?” He asks her, his voice soft. “You’re here, everyday, taking care of me. I’ve seen no other templars about.”

She hesitates, turns to face him.

“You’re my husband.” She says. “We’ve been married almost seven years.”

He rocks back in his seat.

“We’re married?” He asks in disbelief. “Wait…mages are allowed to marry, now?”

His memory lapses, holes and gaps filled with blue light.

She smiles at him and his heart does that irritable flip again. How can he not be married to her, with their fates bound thusly?

“Yes,” she says, her voice soft in that way only women in love could manage, “we are. I asked to be your wife one evening in Rivain, and you told me that there was no one else you’d rather spend the remainder of your life with…” Her smile turned coy, “And that you couldn’t fathom me wasting my time on some idiot who wouldn’t appreciate me and that someone had to make sure I didn’t blow myself up in the laboratory.”

He huffs. “I said all that?”

She approaches him. “Mmhmm. You’ve said a lot more since then, but for now…dinner.”

She goes back to cooking, but this time, she hears the scrape of a chair across the floor and he joins her. The trembling is less by force of will.

“Well then, wife,” he says, “tell me what to do.”

She laughs but it sounds like a sob.

In some ways, those were the best days of all.

When he sees Cullen he can scarce believe it. The man is slightly more robust than the hollow-eyed youth that had come to Kirkwall so long ago, trembling in his armor, gaunt-cheeked and traumatized. This man smiles with all the brightness of the sun, golden eyes filled with a well of contentment that Samson envies in him.

And then he can’t remember why.

They talk for a long time, his lady wife and Cullen, for a long time, and he sits beneath the oak tree, heavy with leaves, looking at the bits of fluffy clouds scuttling across the brilliant sky. It smells like summer is almost at an end, and autumn whispers on the wind.

He smiles, wonders if his lady wife will watch the leaves turn with him, and shuts his eyes. The breeze passes over his face, the sun casting warm, dappled light on his skin, and he sighs.


	40. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Hadiza wakes from the same dream every morning, just before the nascent rays of the sun paint the sky. She dreams she is back in Skyhold, collapsed amidst the pillows with a pair of strong arms around her. She can feel the rumble of his snore in her bones, can smell the sour musk of him as she buries herself under his arm, aching to be closer. In those moments between the final minutes of the night and the first tremulous minutes of the dawn, she loves him the most.

She dreams of his hands, gripping her waist, of his lips, arid and cracked, against her nape. He licks them to soften them against her skin. He leaves a trail of kisses along the knobs of her spine, and she can feel his smile against her when she laughs, like a scar she wants to wear for the rest of her life.

Hadiza wakes, rolling into the empty space in the bed beside her. It has been empty for weeks, and always she forgets.

 _He’ll be back_ , she tells herself, _he just went for a walk to clear his head_. The empty space is cold—it is always cold. _He’ll be back_ , her mind whispers. _He’ll be back._

She knows the truth, knows that that space will always be cold and empty when she wakes, that no one will ever be able to fill it as he did.

 _He’ll be back_. Her mind is lying, trying to convince her, and she wants to believe it. Wants more than anything to lose herself in the delusion that any moment he will come back to bed, that his warm body will slide in next to hers and his arms will come around her waist.

Her pillow is wet with tears.

She doesn’t sleep.

Instead, she cries silently as the sun rises, light slatting through the folds of the heavy curtains. She does not allow the sun in this place, and she knows without having to look that the garden is withering and dying. From her vantage point, she can see her vanity, the cosmetics untouched, scattered on the table, her brush and comb still and dusty.

“Hadiza?” The voice is small, far away, and wrong. It’s not his. He doesn’t call her by her name.

“Hadiza, are you up?” Comes the voice and Hadiza watches as her sister fills the doorway. Aja sees Hadiza and her expression softens.

“Oh…” She murmurs, “How long have you been up?” She makes her way inside, sidestepping a pair of boots, the armor stand with his armor still on it. Judging by the state of the bedroom, Hadiza has not changed it since he left.

“Hadiza…” She moves to sit on the bed and sees her sister’s expression, decides against it, “have you eaten?”

Hadiza does not respond. She rolls over instead and Aja sighs leaving the room. She can hear the kitchen noises, the sound of plates, cutlery, of pots and pans. Hadiza knows Aja will make her breakfast as she has done since he left, but Hadiza’s appetite is a ghost to her; intangible and imperceptible. Food is as ash and dust in her mouth, a thing used to dull the whetted edge of hunger.

He’s already home. He has been home for weeks, settled on the mantle above the fireplace in a small urn bearing the templar insignia.

Hadiza curls in on herself, ignoring the bite of hunger, gorging herself on renewed grief. The smell of searing spices wafts through the air, and she stares listlessly at the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight. Aja is singing.

Everything feels wrong. The world is tipped to one side like an unbalanced scale. The emptiness is loud and yawning at her back, and she doesn’t want to reach for it, to feel it, to make it _real._

Not yet.

Hadiza clings to the moments between the night and the dawn, clings to the ephemeral hope that any moment now his voice will join Aja’s in song. He always sings so well.

Soon, she’s able to lie enough that sleep returns, that she can bury the bones of her sorrow in dreams. And so she does, Aja’s song fading into the watery and warm darkness of sleep, and with it, the call of the cold emptiness in the space on the bed beside her.


End file.
